


Five Orange Pips

by Munchies (IHatePlotHoles)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awesome Molly Hooper, Awesome Sally Donovan, Body Positivity, Case Fic, F/M, Fat Shaming, Fatlock, KKK, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Nazis, PTSD, Rascism, Sally Donovan Appreciation, Season/Series 03, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock Is Bad At Flirting, Tom Is A Sweetheart, Tom Is Not Stupid, Weight Gain, Weight Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-01-06 23:39:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12221307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IHatePlotHoles/pseuds/Munchies
Summary: A BBC Sherlock story based on the Sherlock story The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Five Orange Pips. Season 3 AU (because Mofftis, you two have hecked up this show and it makes me mad).Back from the dead, Sherlock arrives in a London he doesn't recognize. Lestrade's retired, Sally Donovan is the new DI, Molly's in a stable relationship, and John is getting engaged. Sherlock gives up hope for ever reconnecting with the people he's hurt until Mary, John's fiance, comes to him with an envelope filled with five orange pips.





	1. There's No Place Like Home

    John used to say "Nothing like sleeping in your own bed," whenever they came home from a long case away from London. Sherlock never did understand. After all, a bed was a bed. So long as you got a good night's sleep, did it really even matter?

 

    Now after being away from London, dead to the world, he has a much better understanding. Being in your own bed was being home. And home was a place that Sherlock sorely missed.

 

    That being said, sleeping in a first class seat on a private government plane will do just fine in a pinch.

 

    Sherlock looks out the window at the fluffy pink clouds and the setting sun. He'd just left Ukraine about an hour ago after Mycroft gave the all clear to return. Sherlock left the safe house post haste. When he had left London three years ago, he left with plans on going around the world, dismantling Moriarty's webs, and exacting his vengeance on all who dared threaten his friends. So when Mycroft immediately stuck him in a safe house telling Sherlock to stay put "for your own safety and my peace of mind, brother dear" he was not having it. Eventually after the twelfth escape attempt, Mycroft relented and gave him an active role is dismantling the network.

 

    Looking back, Sherlock is not proud at all about his childishness.

 

    Sherlock's job was to be Mycroft's eyes and ears when the man himself could come.  "All you have to do is point the agents in the right direction and don't go swanning off on your own."

 

    Sherlock was fine with that for two months before he demanded more of a challenge. When Mycroft said no, Sherlock used every annoying little brother trick in the book to wear him down until he let him take part in a low level field assignment. All he had to do was accompany an undercover agent to get Intel on a trafficking ring in India. But Sherlock being Sherlock didn't wait long until he started being his usual smug and irritating self.

 

    One of the people caught on and recognized Sherlock. The mission went south and several people (some of them victims) were killed. The agent got shot in the leg pushing Sherlock to the ground. After that, Sherlock never asked to go out in the field again. There's a huge difference between experimenting on a corpse and watching the life drain out of a person. He'll take note to treat John better about his PTSD than he did before he left.

 

    Sherlock pops in a pair of ear buds to help block out the sound of his handler's snoring. Eventually he drifts off to sleep listening to the soothing melody of classical violin.

* * *

 

    Someone was shaking him. He's not certain who, but Sherlock is warm and comfortable and refuses to move. After a bit, whoever is shaking him stops and Sherlock goes back to sleep.

 

    Sometime later, someone shakes him again. They say something, but Sherlock is too focused on sleep to pay them any attention. Then he hears an exasperated sigh followed by a THWACK!

 

    "Ow!" he yelps rubbing his arm.

 

    "Really, brother mine, you are a grown man. _Must_ you act like a child who refuses to go to school?" Mycroft rolls his eyes.

 

    Sherlock yawns and stretches languidly. He rubs his eyes and looks annoyed at Mycroft.

 

    "I'm all ready dead on paper. Must you kill me for real as well?"

 

    "Don't tempt me. And besides, in a few hours, you'll be declared legally alive again and can go back to terrorizing London again."

 

    "Is it really terrorizing if it's for a good cause?"

 

    "Considering that's what all terrorists think? Yes. Yes it is."

 

    Sherlock rolls his eyes.

 

    "Anyway, things have changed a lot since you have been away. There are things you need to know before reintegrating with you're old friends."

 

    "Can't be all that bad. At most, John's moved. Maybe even grew a facial hair. Everyone else? I highly doubt it."

 

    "At the risk of stroking your over-sized ego, you played a far more important part in their lives than you expect. For starters, your soldier friend is in a serious relationship. My men expect him to propose soon."

 

    "Please. Once I'm back in his life, he'll be too busy for such nonsense. She'll be gone within a few months."

 

    "Molly Hooper also has gotten into a relationship. And put on a good deal on weight as well. So do be kind about it."

 

    "I am kind."

 

    "No you really aren't."

 

    "Isn't it kind to point such things out so she can do something about it?"

 

    "Is it kind when you do it to me?"

 

    Sherlock scoffs. "Well that's different."

 

    "Moving on. DI Lestrade is no longer with the police force. He's retired in Suffolk. Sally Donovan is the new DI for the Homicide Division."

 

    Sherlock bolts up at that. "That woman?!"

 

    "Yes. And she's made a great deal of changes to Scotland Yard policy, so if you plan on resuming your detective work, you'll have to play by her rules. You and I both know she's not going to bend over backwards for you."

 

    Sherlock scowls. "Is there _any_ good news."

 

    "Anderson quit not long after your alleged suicide. It seems he and several other of your fans dedicated themselves to finding out why jumped which lead to them discovering the truth about Moriarty. They have proved instrumental to restoring your name."

 

    "Anderson?"

 

    Mycroft nods.

 

    "Anderson." Sherlock scoffs. "Well I suppose I own him something nice."

 

    "I suppose so. But it will have to wait until Mummy sees you. If she finds out you went swanning elsewhere she'll have both our heads."

 

    Sherlock shudders. He loves his mother. She's perhaps the smartest, kindest, and most loving person he's ever known - though Mrs. Hudson does give her a run for her money - but in many ways she is like Queen Elizabeth. One simply does not make her cross or deny her her whims.

 

    "Fair enough. I'll pop in for a few minutes and then I'll be on my way."

 

    "Sherly, you've been away for three years. You'll stay for a day before you reconnect."

 

    SHerlock groans wonder just what he did to deserve all this.


	2. Best Laid Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes a run for it. John nearly has a heart attack. Mycroft is a smug jerk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone who read and liked the story. I know it's a odd one, but I promise it'll be a wild ride.

    Sherlock sits on an overstuffed sofa surrounded with more food than he could ever eat. He's been back in England for about three hours and his mother has made it her mission to cram as much food into him as possible.

 

    "Sherlock your so thin. Have you eaten at all since you've been away?"

 

    "Mummy, you already have one pudgy son. Why ever would you want two?"

 

    Mummy smacks him upside the head. "Your brother is far from pudgy and you know it. Stop being cruel for the sake of being cruel."

 

    Mycroft shoots a smug grin at Sherlock.

 

    "And you Mycie, stop teasing your brother. You two will only devolve into bickering children and I am not in the mood for that."

 

    "Yes, Mummy," the two say in unison.

 

    "Violet, are you still feeding the boy?" Mr. Holmes comes in with a box filled with stuff. His violin peeks out from the top.

 

    "Is that ... ?" Sherlock asks reverently.

 

    "Indeed. That Watson friend of yours dropped this off about a week after you left. Poor boy looked so broken hearted, I almost told him you were alive. Why couldn't I? I never did get that."

 

    "Because John is an abysmal actor and Moriarty's men were watching him. It didn't matter if you two knew because he simply didn't care." Sherlock explains.

 

    "Fair. I still don't like it though. You've had so few friends, William. I think the last one you had was back in University, and after he died, you never had a friend until John. He's a good egg, you know. I don't want this to end your friendship."

 

    "Don't worry. Yes, John will be pissed, but once he's done being angry, he'll see I was right and get over it."

 

    Sherlock's father looks at him skeptically. "I'm not sure if you're right, but seeing as you know him more that I do, I'll trust your judgement."

 

    "All right, enough of this doom and gloom," his mother interects, "I so rarely see you boys, and I spent far too long wondering if I was ever going to see you again. Let's do something. A card game perhaps? That way we are all on equal footing."

 

    Playing cards is the absolute _last_ thing Sherlock wants to do, but no one says "no" to Mummy. Not even the Queen of England herself. So Sherlock sits through a round of Uno before his mind starts wandering.

 

    He can't stop thinking about what his father said. Sure, John is a very rational man. But he is also a very emotional one. Sherlock's pretty sure that's the only reason the man stayed through all the abuse he put him through. But what if this is the straw that breaks the camel's back? If there's one thing that the past three years have taught him, is that he doesn't want to live in a world without John in his life. So a world in which John hates him forever his unthinkable. That is why after another round of Uno (and smugly beating Mycroft in the process) he excuses himself, heads to the bathroom, sneaks out the window, and steals his parents' car (not Mycrofts - it has a tracker) and heads off to 221B Baker street.

* * *

    Admittedly this was not the best of plans.

 

    Momentarily forgetting that Mrs. Hudson still thinks he's dead, Sherlock heads to Baker Street intent on talking to John. Unfortunately for him, Mrs. Husdon heard him come in and began smacking him within an inch of his life with a cast iron skillet. By the time she realized who it was, Sherlock was bruised all over. So after a lot of hugs, tears, and another good thump, she sweeps him into her apartment, gives him a cuppa, and practically covers him in frozen peas.

 

    "Why do you have so many peas?" he asks.

 

    "Because there's a potluck coming up soon and they were on sale."

 

    "So then your contribution is peas?"

 

    "Oh hush you. It's pot pies, if you must know. After you faked your death, John only stayed for a few months before moving back in with his sister. So I joined a few clubs for senior citizens just to get myself out of the house."

 

    "That's fair. So, if John isn't here, then where is he?"

 

    "Really, Sherlock? I've been mourning your death for three years only for you to turn up out of the blue - alive. And I barely get a how do you do before you turn your focus on John?"

 

    "In all fairness, Mrs. Hudson, he _is_ my only friend."

 

    "And what am I? Chopped liver? What about that detective man? Greg, I think his name is. Or that lovely lady pathologist that brings you thumbs sometimes. Or your homeless network? You may only claim John as a friend Sherlock, but in truth, you have many friends."

 

     Sherlock looks at her like a chastistened school boy. "Yes you're right Mrs. Hudson. It's just that John and I left on a terrible note. He watched me fall of the roof top, and I'm afraid that if he hears I'm alive through the grape vine that our friendship will be effectively over."

 

    Mrs. Hudson sighs. "Okay. I understand. John comes around from time to visit. He's since moved from his sister's place to his own place. I've got his contact information around here someplace. I'll give it to you if you promise to wait until tomorrow so we can go together."

 

    "All right Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock relents before breaking into a yawn.

 

    "Come on, Sherlock. It's late. You can sleep on my counch tonight and we'll pop over first thing in the morning."

 

    "Thank-you Mrs. Hudson. Even if you _did_ bruise me black and blue."

 

    "Oh hush you. You deserved that and more. And you know it."

 

    Later, when Mrs. Hudson is deeply asleep, Sherlock sneaks from the counch and looks for her address book. His brows go up when he sees John has left London and moved to Kent. Quietly, he sneaks outside to hail a cab.

* * *

 

    After paying the cabbie an unthinkable amount of quid, Sherlock quickly walks towards a quaint little flat. From the looks of things, John has stepped out for the evening so Sherlock lets himself in. The moment he walks in, the smell of John's best cologne hits him in full force. He wrinkles his nose at the Mahognany Teakwood the the man apparently bathed in. The smell is all ready starting to overwhelm him, so he wouldn't be able to be as thorough as he would like.

 

    He walks though the living room. There are scores of pictures everywhere. He doesn't recognize some of the people, but he sees John smiling with DI Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and a rather chubby Molly and what his assumes is her boyfriend. It's a bit odd to him that Molly's the fat one while her boyfriend is rather slim. Perhaps she's been eating her feelings? Molly did have a lot on her shoulders.

 

    From the looks of things, John has also reconnected with Harry. Here they are in a picture both wearing deerstalker hats. It warms Sherlock's heart to know that John still thinks of him fondly. But it also means that John has largely moved on. Showing up now will pretty much guarantee _at least_ a sock in the nose. Maybe three. Best to get it over with.

 

    Judging by the nausiating amount of cologne, John must be with a lady friend. And judging by the disgustingly sweet pictures of John and a blonde woman of Jewish descent, it must be a fairly serious relationship. Strangely, they haven't moved in together yet.

 

    Sherlock locates the bedroom where the smell of cologne is even stronger. Perhaps he really _did_ bathe in it. Sherlock grabs his handkerchief and covers his nose and mouth in hopes of muffling the smell. It only does so much. But knowledge is calling for him, so he goes in anyway.

 

    The first thing he does is open a window. Sure, John may be upset about him touching his stuff, but really, it's a public service. That done, he takes note of John military precision of neatness. Shoes spit shined. Hospital corners on the bed. Everything tidy and clean. As much as it annoyed Sherlock when they were living together, he really has missed this about John. In fact, he's missed most things about John. Even that Mahagony Teakwood.

 

    His eyes land on John's calandar. On today's date, written in red pen, looks like a reminder for a date. Sherlock's heart stops. John would always color code his calandar reminds to signify how important the event it. All of his dates are usually written in green pen - important, but will drop if something more important happens. Red pen signifies that nothing, save a natural disaster or the fall of England, will stop him. Usually those are case or Sherlock related things. To see the date written in red feel like John has not only moved on, but _replaced_ Sherlock. What's more is that he's likely going to propose tonight.

 

    The date is set for 8.30. It's 9 right now. A quick look at John's search history ( _Really, John. You've gotten sloppy while I was away._ ) shows that the restaurant is about a mile away. Considering the obscene amount of money that he had to pay, Sherlock decides to go there on foot.

* * *

 

    10 minutes later, Sherlock finds himself in front a _very_ fancy French place. The kind that you need to book reservations well in advance to get in. It's very clear that John is committed to this woman. More than he was ever committed to Sherlock. The notion does not sit well with him at all. John is the only person outside of Sherlock's family that will drop everything to help him and has enough whit to keep Sherlock entertained. He has so few people in his inner circle as it is. To know his best friend isn't going to be in his life like he used to be is heart wrenching.

 

    He shakes his head. Being away has mad him maudlin and that just won't do. He looks at his clothes. Black slacks and a dress shirt. If he can get his hands on a suit jacket, he just might be able to pass off as a waiter.

 

    Ten minutes later, he's pilfered a spare suit jacket, grabbed a menu, and just for laughs made a false mustache out of some lady's mascara. Sherlock swivels his head around until his eyes land on John. He looks fitter than he remembers. Younger too somehow. There's a light in his eyes that Sherlock's never seen outside of the day he gave John a reason to live again.

 

    There's a rather telling bulge in John's suit jacket. His girlfriend isn't at the table currently, so John much be working up the nerve to propose. And just like that, Sherlock can see his life with John at his side slipping away. Why ever would John even consider coming back when he has a new and better reason to live?

 

    Suddenly, the girlfriend comes back. Sherlock doesn't even bother to really think as he quickly walks to the table.

 

    "How are you finding everything tonight?" Sherlock asks in a decidedly terrible French accent.

 

    John is a bit to absorbed to really notice, but the girlfriend notices something is up right away.

 

    "Say, what happened to that other bloke? The ginger one?"

 

    At this, John _does_ look up. And the sight makes the blood drain from his face.

 

    "Sh-Sherlock?"

 

    "In the flesh," he says nervously. Unfortunately he has no idea what to do next.

 

    John does though. "How are you here? I watched you die. I touched your corpse. I went to your funeral. I visited your grave. I _mourned you!_ "

 

    "Yes, I understand that. But there were extenuating circumstances. If you didn't think I was dead, then Moriarty's snipers would have killed you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. I had to stay away until the coast was clear. That's why I'm back now."

 

    "Yes, but _right_ now? There's no way you couldn't know about..."

 

    "About your plans on asking your girlfriend to marry you? All the more reason to see you now."

 

    John turned a vivid red. "Do you have any kind of respect? Or _tact_?"

 

    _This is it_. Sherlock thinks. _He'll punch me, ruin his date, hopefully she'll leave, and then things can start going back to normal_.

 

    John moves to get up, but his girlfriend gently - yet firmly - grasps his forearm. "John, is this really what you want to do?"

 

    "Yes, I am quite sure."

 

    "Really? Today your best friend came back from the dead, we are eating at an expensive restaurant that takes forever to get into, and you are about to propose to me. Wouldn't it be better if you agreed to see Sherlock tomorrow, when you've had time to cool down, and discuss things like adults?"

 

    John visible deflates. "Of course. You're right, Mary."

 

    "Of course I am. Haven't you heard? I'm always right."

 

    Sherlock looks at the happy couple. It seems like John actually found a keeper. If he tries to break them up in anyway, he _will_ lose John.

 

    "Yes of course. I suppose it would be best if we talked later."

 

    "All right then. Later," John is still red, but noticibly less so, "But on _my_ terms. I don't want to see or hear you or from you until I contact you."

 

    Sherlock nods before awkwardly shuffling off. He's halfway towards the building when one of the waiters realizes he isn't employed there and gets promptly kicked out. And as if to add further insult to injury, it starts to rain. Sherlock trudges down the street, lost in his own world until suddenly the rain stops. He looks up to see Mycroft standing by one of his government cars holding his ever present brolly.

 

    "Really, Sherlock? I can't let you out of my sight for five minutes before you start causing trouble?"

 

    "I was gone for a lot longer than five mintutes, Mycroft."

 

    "Don't I know it. Well, I do believe you've caused Dr. Watson enough grief for the day. Let's get you home."

 

    "That's oddly charitable of you, Mycroft."

 

    "I can afford to be, brother mine. _I_ am not not the one who has to reckon with Mrs. Hudson _and_ Mummy."

 

    Sherlock groans at this.

 

    "Chin up. Best to get this over with. Or would you rather trudge home in the wet and cold?"

 

    Sherlock gives another groan but he slides into the car pouting all the way.


	3. No Good Deed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is back from the dead. Molly has a spine. Sally lays down the law.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't normally do one scene chapters aside from the intro chapter, but there is so much going on in this one that it didn't make sense to cram in more stuff.
> 
> Shout out to Chuffed4angst to making the first comment on my story. I was begining to think this would be my first story without a comment. (But that's what happens when you have such strange tags.)

    After being properly chastised by Mrs. Husdon, and then again by Mummy the next day, Sherlock's ego is pretty much deflated. His father, wanting to minimize the drama, is staying out of things and Mycoft is too busy being smug. So after his pompous brother has him sign the paperwork stating to the world he is very much alive, Sherlock secretly plans to go to Bart's. At least there he knows that there is one person garunteed to boost his ego.

 

    "Are you sure this is a good idea, Sherlock? I can think of a thousand ways this will blow up in your face," Mycroft says as he walks out the door to drop him off at 221 B.

 

    "Let's not forget, Mycroft, that the entire reason I'm in this mess is that you decided to trade information from me to get information out of Moriarty. Forgive me if I do not take your advice."

 

    Mycrofts face goes from blandly amused to carefully neutral. "Well, if that's how you feel."

 

    "That is exactly how I feel."

 

    "Well, you are an adult. Who am I to try to control your life."

 

    "It's about time you realized that."

 

    The only indication that Mycroft is upset is a quick tightening of his lips. The rest of the car ride is as silent as the grave. Only the hum of the car and the occasional noise outside gives any indication of life. Eventually Sherlock notices that they are not on the right exit to go to Baker Street.

 

    "Where are you taking me, Mycroft?"

 

   "To see Doctor Hooper. It is clear to me that you are going to do whatever you wish, so perhaps it is best you realize things for yourself."

 

    "Realize what?

 

    But Mycroft isn't talking. Just gently rolling his umbrella handle the way he does when someone is being particularly dense.

 

    Finally the car pulls up to the morgue's back entrance. It's a bit sooner than he would like to be here (he'd rather have time to properly fluff and muss his hair the was Molly like and put on the aubergine shirt she can't get enough of) but he'll take it.

 

    "Do try to curb your tongue, brother dear," Mycroft says as Sherlock leaps out the car.

 

    "Yes, of course," he replies half listening.

 

    Mycroft tuts and shakes his head before closing the door and signalling the driver to head home.

* * *

 

    Sherlock slinks through the door taking pains not to let the little bell Molly put on it years ago tinkle. He isn't sure that she's alone yet and he'd rather not deal with everyone knowing he's alive yet.

 

    He can hear the occasional clatter of tools and Molly murmuring to the voice recorder, but nothing else. Satisfied, he stalks towards her.

 

    As he gets closer, he can start to make out what she's saying.

 

    "Poor Mr. Steinburg. Who did this to you? Based on the holes going clear through the volar parts of your hands and feet, I'd say you were nailed to a cross."

 

    "Perhaps it was a case of cult flagellation."

 

    Molly jumps and spins around, brandishing the (thankfully clean) scapel in her hands. Her brain quickly catches up to her eyes as she realizes that Sherlock is standing before her in her morgue.

 

    "You're back." It is not a question.

 

    "Yes. Moriarty and his web are gone for good. Everything else is my pompous brother's problem."

 

    Calmly, Molly puts down her scalpel, takes off her gloves, and removes her face shield. It seems that Sherlock caught her just before she started to open the body. As she's dowing that, he takes in her appearance. Molly has changed a lot since he last saw her. The most noticable difference in the fact that she looks like she's at _least_ 14 stone. Despite the conserningly large amount of weight she's put on, she also seems scores more confident. Her footsteps are firmer. She shoulders rolled back. Her hair and clothing looks like she put some thought in her appearance for once. And though she's bare faced right now, she's looks more radiently beautiful than he can ever remember her being. Christmas party included. It's an odd realization considering that she's quite fat, but then again, confidence does wonders for a person's general attractiveness.

 

    Molly comes back to envelop him in a warm hug. Normally he'd shake her off and scold her, but considering all she's done for him, he'll let her do it this one time. Even if it is the most comfortable hug he's ever had.

 

    "I'm so glad you're safe. I was woried that one day you might be dead for real."

 

    "Yes, well thanks to Mycroft I saw very little action. So here I am in one piece."

 

    Molly smiles up at him. It's different from the nervous smiles she used to give him. The ones that screamed "Please love me. I love you." This was the smile of a friend happy to see him well. Not exactly what he was hoping for (he suddenly remembers that she _is_ dating someone) but it's worlds better than Mrs. Hudson and John reactions.

 

    "So did you just get back?"

 

    "Yes, yesterday."

 

    "Do they know?"

 

    "Mrs. Hudson and John know. I haven't had the chance to see Lestrade."

 

    "Are you going to see him, or will you let Greg find out in the papers?"

 

    "Who's Greg?"

 

    "Lestrade!"

 

    "Hmm. I always thought his name was DI."

 

    "No you didn't, you twat!" Molly starts giggling as she playfully slaps his arm.

 

    Sherlock turns his attention to the body on the slab. "So. Nailed to a cross?"

 

    "Ah, yes. I've only done the premilinary but I'm pretty sure that the cause of death is due to either exposure or thirst due to being nailed to a cross."

 

    Sherlocks brows shoot up at that. "Definately a cult thing then. Perhaps one of these off-brand Christian cults trying to get into heaven."

 

    "No. This is probably a hate crime."

 

    "What makes you say that?"

 

    "Look at the anterolateral area on his body."

 

    Sherlock follows her back to the slab and takes a look at the man's chest. He's badly sunburned and dehydrated, but there is no mistaking the Star of David carved on his chest.

 

    "This body has been dead for at least a day. Where did you find him?"

 

    "According to the police report, he was on top of a building when the maitainance man foud him. But no cross."

 

    Sherlock perks up at that. "So someone killed him and then luged him up to a rooftop. Someone must have seen something."

 

    Molly shrugs. "Maybe, maybe not. It's not my department."

 

   "No I suppose not." Sherlock takes a good look at the body. Mr. Steinburg was an older but fit man in his mid-50s. For someone to force him to go anywhere he didn't want to go, they  themselves had to be either very fit as well, or multiple assailants. Balance of probability leans to the latter. It had to have been a blitz attack, but anything more than that isn't readily apparent.

 

    "Molly, hand me the tox screen. I assume that you've already ran one."

 

    Molly presses her lips into a nervous line. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I can't."

 

    "Really, Molly? You are usually on top of these things. It seems you've grown lax since I've been away."

 

    Molly scowls at him. "No, I did. My abilities and skill as a pathologist are entirely independent of your nit picking."

 

    "Then why can't I see it?"

 

    "Because after you took that dive off of Bart's and your credibility was torn to shreads, a lot of things changed. And even after your name got cleared, those changes are still in effect. One of those is that no one who is unauthorized to touch the bodies and other evidence - especially those part of an active police case. And now that you're legally alive again, it's only a matter of time before people realize that I helped you fake your death. I can't give them any more fodder to get rid of me than they all ready do. This job is my life."

 

    "Well if it was going to be such a burden, why did you bother to help me?"

 

    "Because that's what friends do! They put their neck on the line for each other. Like you did for John, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson!"

 

    "Then why won't you let me look at it then? If I help you, then you'll be done that much sooner and you can do whatever it is you do. Going to dinner with your boyfriend I assume."

 

    "How do you...? Nevermind. Mycroft must have brought you up to date on that. Either that or you deduced it. Still, it doesn't matter. Not the least of which is that you are really only doing it because you are bored and a little bit lonely. If you were really looking out for me, you'd be trying to figure out how I can keep my job. Because not only is letting you take a look-see against hospital policy, it's also against the  _law_. As in the law of the  _United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland_. And you really should be here either."

 

    "Molly. Are you kicking me out?"

 

    She pauses for a moment. "Yes. I do believe I am."

 

    "Et tu?" Sherlock lets out a rather loud groan before shouting, "Nothing is as it should be!"

 

    "Then how should it be?" asks a very sassy voice.

 

    Both Molly and Sherlock startle and whirl around. There stands a very annoyed looking Sally Donovan, foot tapping and eyes trained on Sherlock. He curses himself for being too wrapped up with Molly to not notice Donovan's heels clicking on the hospital linoleum. He glances over to Molly who has a deer-in-headlights look on her face.

 

    "Now, I believe in miracles, but this is a bit too much," Sally says and she walks over to Sherlock, "Care to explain to me why you are standing in the morgue and not laying in the grave?"

 

    Sherlock takes in her appearance. She looks a lot different now dressed in a navy pantsuit, sensible heels, and hair slicked back into a sock bun. She's a far cry from the woman who teetered between sexy and professional. She's more secure now, wiser even. And tired - extremely so judging by the red eyes and the bags under her face.

 

    Sherlock snaps out of his deductions. He's feeling extremely uncomfortable right now, so instead of thinking about what he says, he blurts out:

 

     "Well obviously I'm not dead."

 

    Sally blinks for a moment before drolling out, "Yes, I can see that. Otherwise, you are the freshing looking reanimated corpse I have ever seen. But the bigger question is if you are not dead, then why did you make the world think you were?"

 

    "Moriarty."

 

    Sally winces at that. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry how it all turned out."

 

    "Yes, falsely accusing people of crimes they did not commit isn't very pleasant. But I'm here now, so it's all water under the bridge. I'll even offer you my services just like I did the DI Lestrade."

 

    Sally's droll expression turns stern. "Thank-you for the offer, Sherlock, but no. You see, while I am sorry for how everything turned out, I'm not sorry about suspectng you were the man Moriarty portayed you as. Because the sad truth is he wasn't all that wrong about you.

    "You desecrate corpses and body parts for fun. You lie and manipulate people to get what you want. You have no respect for authority or the law. And any kind of help you do offer is only for as long as you feel entertained or obligated. You're good at what you do, Holmes. I'll give you that. But you are a liability. To have you help solve any case would put the integrity of the entire police investigation into question. Do you have any idea what Greg lost because of you? Let alone the things you put those who care about you through?

    "I wasn't the nicest of people towards you. And I was very unproffessional too. And for that, I am sorry. But I will _not_ have you walk all over me like you did with Greg. Now for Molly's sake, I'll let you announce your ressurection whenever you see fit. But you better do it with her in mind. Because I know that it is only a matter of time before people realize she helped you fake your death. And when that happens, she's going to be in a world of hurt. Do you understand?"

 

    Sherlock swallows. "Perfectly."

 

    "Good. Now Molly, I do believe you have a body for me."

 

    "Yes, of course," Molly tries to sound pleasant but her face is a lot paler that earlier. No doubt she's thinking about all the ways her helpfullness will come back to bite her in the butt.

 

    At least Sherlock has the satisfaction of knowing she doesn't regret it. But thinking about what Sally has said deflates that feeling a little. He knows he's not the nicest of people. A part of him takes pride in that. But the sad truth of the matter is that if he had been a kinder man - a better man even - Moriarty would have had a harder time discrediting him. Sherlock rarely feels guilt - it's a waste of time in his opinion - but it stabs him in the gut all the same. Molly is his friend. And he's put her in the crosshairs.

 

    He lets out a small sigh and looks at the two women. They seem to be engrossed in discussing the body and making lunch plans with some woman named Meena. Taking advantage of this, he slips out the room and heads home. As much as he doesn't want to, he'll have to make a phone call to his smug git of a brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never did like how BBC Sherlock portrays women. I especially didn't like how they handled Sally. Because the truth of the matter is she has excellent and sympathetic reasons for why she is the way she is to Sherlock. And the two aren't that dissimilar either. It'll be interesting writing their new dynamic.


	4. Memory Lane.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is very much done right now. Sherlock converses with a skull. Mary stops by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who has decided to take a chance on this weird little story. I promise that you are in for a ride.

    Sherlock jolts awake to a familiar stomping sound. He allows himself a little smile. Those three years he was away, Sherlock doubted that he would ever hear the sound of John stomping up the stairs.

 

    It's a bittersweet feel though since the only time John stomps up the stairs is when he's feeling pissy.

 

     As if to further shatter any good feeling he has left, John knocks on the door instead of unlocking it to come it. This means either John no longer has a key or this place no longer feels like home to him anymore. Balance of probability suggests a mix of both. Sherlock heaves a sigh and gets up to let him in.

 

    John's face is drawn and pinched. But it no longer holds the wrath he had the other day.

 

    "Mrs. Hudson cleaned?"

 

    Sherlock glances at the flat. The moment Mrs. Hudson recovered from Sherlock's resurrection, she went on a cleaning spree. Sherlock is feeling just charitable enough that he hasn't messed it up yet.

 

    "Hello, John. Come in." Sherlock moves to let the shorter man in. He also attempts to smile, but it feels so forced that he just knows he looks creepy right now. Not the best thing to do when reconciling with your best friend.

 

    John steps inside and goes directly to his old chair. Sherlock can't help but feel a bit hopeful at that. For John to sit there suggests that a part of him still feels like it belongs in Sherlock's world. Then again, it could also just be that it's his favorite place it sit here. John does like a certain level of routine.

 

    Sherlock sits on the sofa. It's close enough that he can see John, but far enough that if John gets violently mad, he has enough time to dodge. They sit there in silence for a bit - the air heavy with hurts half healed and reopened. Eventually John opens his mouth to speak. But it's in starts and stops. For once Sherlock does not feel the need to hurry him along.

 

    Finally he speaks. "Talked to Molly."

 

    "I see. Look, John, she didn't want to deceive you. But it was imperative-"

 

    "I know. She told me everything. And strangely enough, I'm not mad at her. How could I be when she was doing this for you? If you told her to walk into a burning building because the fate of the world depended on it, she'd do it."

 

    "That's not fair, John. Her crush on me might have been a factor, but ultimately she did it because she didn't want you, Mrs. Hudson, or Lestrade to die. And to get back at Moriarty for using her."

 

    "Be it as it may, I'm not angry at her. I am, however, mad at you. I've had some time to think and cool down. And I forgive you for what happened that day you jumped and faked your death. I don't like it, but I get why you did it."

 

    "If you forgive me, then why are you still angry? That is not how forgiveness works."

 

    "I forgive you for that, but not everything else. As I mourned you, I began to realize some things. You are not a good friend Sherlock. You may have given me a reason to get up in the morning, and I'm grateful for that, but you were always terrible to me.

 

    "How many times did you use me as bait without telling me? Or use me as a test subject? Or completely disrespect me in front of other people. I began to realize that you do not respect me or the things that are important to me. If I had a pence for every time you pulled me away from work - something we needed for money between cases and so I could still be a doctor - I could buy your violin twice over."

    "John, I faked my death and went away for three year to save your life!"

 

    "And I am grateful. But considering that stunt you pulled when I was proposing to Mary, I am not sure you've changed enough. You of all people should have realized that what you did was a bit not good. But you did it anyway because you hate change. You like things a certain way, and when they aren't, you'll do whatever it takes to get it back to normal. I've seen you do it to Molly time and time again. You do it to me whenever I get a girlfriend. Well I am done with your selfishness. Goodbye, Sherlock. It was nice knowing you."

 

    Enraged, Sherlock stands up. "Mary put you up to this, didn't she?"

 

    "Mary doesn't know I'm here."

 

    That stops Sherlock in his tracks. He stares dumbly as John calmly walks out the flat. For once, his towering intellect has left him with nothing to say. A heavy weight settles in the pit of his stomach. He always knew that one day John would wise up and leave him. He just didn't expect it to be today. Or that it would hurt so much.

 

    This is why Sherlock doesn't like to make friends. Eventually they leave you. And sure he has Mrs. Hudson and Molly left, but how much longer until they abandon him too?

* * *

 

    Hours later, once the shock and betrayal fades a bit, he walks over to the skull on his mantel. Despite common misconceptions, it isn't a real one. Just a very convincing ceramic. And it's all he has left of his late friend Victor.

 

    When Sherlock left for university, he came with a hopeful heart. At last his mind would receive the stimulation it craved for so long in a world of grey. His mind was always racing, buzzing, longing to break free of the transport that just slowed it down. Surely university would be just the thing to center himself.

 

    Two weeks in and all college served was to aggravate him more. Once he understood what his professors wanted, college was a breeze. It felt like he was the only bright light in a world of busted bulbs.

 

    Two months later, his roommate dragged him to a party. He had his first bong and his first high. Sherlock had an epiphany. If he can't change his surroundings to fit his needs, he'll change himself to fit his surroundings.

 

   He didn't use very much in those early days. Just enough to find his poison. And then he found it. Cocaine. It focused him like no other drug ever did and it didn't slow him down either. University was a breeze and he could still be himself. And everything was fine.

 

    Until it wasn't enough.

 

    That's how he found Victor. Or rather how Victor found him. Sherlock's usual dealer didn't have the higher dosage he was looking for, so Sherlock went to check out the competition. Unfortunately, he didn't realize that not all drug dealers had the higher quality that he was used to.

 

    That's how Victor found him in the park that night. Strung out and suffering one of the worst trips he's been on before or since. The man felt pity for him and rather foolishly took Sherlock back to his flat to come down from his high. Sherlock went without resistance thinking it was Mycroft come to cart him off to rehab again for the last time. So when he woke up in an unfamiliar location, Sherlock went on the defensive.

 

    Several bruises and a bloody nose later, Victor finally convinced Sherlock that he wasn't here to collect his organs or the sell him as a slave on the black market. It was the start of a beautiful friendship.

 

    Victor was a kind man who majored in Literature and Philosophy at a nearby university. The two caught on like a house on fire staying up late into the night talking about life, science, and the world. Or sometimes about nothing at all. Sherlock's drug usage started to dwindle to the odd line of coke every now and then.

 

    He felt whole with his friend by his side. It wasn't love like how his parents loved each other. Or even the way He and Mycroft sort of loved each other. But when Victor was by his side, it felt like he could take on the entire world.

 

    Then one day it all came to an abrupt end. Victor came over on his birthday one year to drop off a skull.

 

    "This is Billy," he announced with a proud grin. "Since you like all that creepy stuff, I thought you might appreciate it."

 

    At the time, Sherlock thought it was the stupidest thing he had ever seen. But he took it anyway to humor him.

 

    Victor stayed for a bit to chat and then left to go pick up his girlfriend for a date. The next morning the girlfriend called to tell him that Victor died in a car crash on his way home.

 

    Sherlock went on a bender, desperate to numb the pain. Unfortunately, Mycroft was the one to find him strung out this time. He missed the funeral as he sat in rehab. Billy was all he had left of him.

 

    Sherlock gingerly picks Billy up and cradles it to his chest. Then dramatically draps himself over the sofa.

 

    "I suppose that that's the difference between you and John. You didn't want to leave me. He did. And soon everyone else will too. Not that I blame him. I drove him away. A thousand little things just to test his commitment, but it just reaffirmed that he deserved better.

    "But you didn't leave. Was I nicer to you? Or do you just not care?"

 

    Billy says nothing as per usual. But Sherlock gazes into his empty eye sockets as if they hold the secrets of the universe.

 

    "Was I wrong? Should I have told John at some point I was alive? He is a lot smarter than I give him credit for. Maybe if I had, he'd still be here."

 

    Sherlock remembers the fantasy he often had while he was away. How John would stand there choked up and emotional. Mrs. Hudson would tut and bake some of his favorite biscuits to celebrate. Lestrade would be so grateful and give him his pick of the numerous crimes he hasn't been able to solve. Looking back, he admits it is a rather childish fantasy, but it's what kept him going.

 

    It is the height of narcissism to want everyone to feel like they cannot live their lives without you. But the alternatwill... No, soon they will realise that even if they can do it themselves, having his assistance is so much better.

 

    "Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him well."

 

    Sherlock starts at the new voice. It's John's fiancée, Amy or something, standing awkwardly in the doorway.

 

    Sherlock frowns. "Come to gloat?"

 

    She looks at him quizzically for a moment before understanding dawns on her.

 

    "Oh, no. I can assure you I am not here for that. For the record, I think it's tragic that after everything, John doesn't want to fix things, but I respect his decision."

 

    "So you think John is overreacting?"

 

    "No, I think his concerns are valid. But I also think that if you are willing to jump of a building for him, then you are willing to fix things with him."

 

    "And that is why you're here? To help us patch things up?"

 

    "It's more of a case of killing two birds with one stone."

 

    He puts Billy down. "Explain."

 

    "A few days ago, My father got these in the mail." She reaches into her purse and pulls out and opened envelope. Sherlock takes it and see that it is empty save five orange pips.

 

    "I didn't know about it until today. Then I remembered that you are the world's greatest detective. Who better to ask for help than you?"

 

    "You need my help finding the pranksters that sent orange pips to your father? That hardly seems like a good usage of my talents."

 

    She shakes her head. "You don't understand."

 

    He motions for her to sit down. "Enlighten me."

 

    She sits down and takes a minute to gather her thoughts. Then she speaks.

 

    "During World War 2, my grandfather was a Nazi sympathizer. Then after the Nazis lost, he fled to the American South where millions of like minded people lived. He joined the Ku Klux Klan, got married, and had a son. Everything was going well until his son fell in love with a Jew and abandoned every principle of hate his father instilled in him.

 

    "They fled to England, but not before my grandfather promised to make him pay for his betrayal. Those five orange pips are the KKK's way of saying his days are numbered."

 

    "And how many days has it been since he's received these?"

 

    "Three days."

 

    Sherlock thinks back to the man on the slab. "Then we haven't a moment to lose, Amy."

 

    "Mary."

 

    "Right. Come along."

 

    "Where are we going?"

 

    "To Scotland Yard."

 

    "I thought you were going to help me?"

 

    "I am. But if my deduction is right, then he has two more days until his assassination."

 

    "Police protection?"

 

    "And a few other things. Don't worry, Mary. We will get to the bottom of it."

 

    "Wait! How much do I owe you?"

 

    "Don't bother. This one is on the house. And do hurry up. The game is on."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Mary. She's just great. I think I'll have the most fun writing her.
> 
> I wanted to explain Sherlock's actions a bit more. He isn't just a selfish man child. He has intimacy issues and doesn't cope with life in general very well. In this story, Sherlock is autistic but prefers to have people this he is a sociopath. After all, nobody pities the sociopath. This is something that he will have to come to terms with.


	5. The Game Is Afoot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sally has the patience of a saint. John feels betrayed. Mary is awesome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are now getting the ball rolling on the mystery. Hang on everyone. It is going to be a doozy.

    It is déjà vu walking into NSY. Everything is exactly like he left it. From the low level convicts trudging in hand cuffs, to the bustling pace of the coppers, to the incessant telephone ringing. Everything, that is, save the Serious Crimes Division. Oh, there were people that he remembered from three years ago, but most of them had been promoted, a few demoted, and the rest seem to be just gone for one reason or another. But the biggest change is Sally Donovan.

 

    Sherlock knows that if anything is going to be done properly, Donovan has to be involved. But the question is how to approach her. For years he's made an art form out of antagonizing her, but he has no idea about getting on her good side.

 

    Mary, however, has no such worries. She zeroes in on one of the officers and marches right over.

 

    "Pardon me, Officer ... Stanley, but I have a serious problem and I don't know who to talk to."

 

    "It's no problem, love. What seems to be the issue?"

 

    "I think someone is going to kill my father in two days, but I don't know who."

 

    "And does he have any enemies?"

 

    "The Ku Klux Klan."

 

    "Who are they?"

 

    "A terrorist group not unlike the neo-nazis, only they've been around a bit longer."

 

    Officer Stanley blinks and makes to say something a few times before throwing his hands up and muttering "I am too sober for this."

 

    Impatiently, Sherlock waltzes over very much annoyed at the inefficiency.

 

    "Yes, yes. We know that this isn't what you expected to hear when you got up today, but this is a matter of some urgency. So if you be ever so kind-"

 

    He doesn't get much further once Officer Stanley realizes that he is talking to a ghost, and doesn't even believe in such things.

 

    "Sherlock Holmes?"

 

    The DI Donovan that stands before him now is very different from the DI Donovan that he saw yesterday. Ruffled and wrinkled with her messy curls throw into a haphazard pony, it is quite obvious that she slept here last night. And judging by the porrage stains and bags under her eyes, she didn't sleep well.

 

    "Officer Stanley, if you could kindly keep quiet about this until I make a statement, I would appreciate that."

 

    "Keep quiet about what? I don't see anything unusual at all."

 

    "Thank you Stanley." She turns to a befuddled Sherlock and an amused Mary. "If you would step into my office?"

 

   Once inside, Donovan gestures for them to sit down. Sherlock can't help but to feel a bit like a naughty school boy sitting in the principal's office.

 

    "I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that you gave not one thought about protecting Dr. Hooper did you?"

 

    "This is a bit more important. A man's life is on the line. Besides, I doubt Officer Stan will say anything."

 

    "Stanley. And no, he won't. But you passed hundreds of police officers on your way in. And who knows how many criminals. It's only a matter of time before word leaks out. I give it a month tops.

  
    "But in the mean time, who is this and why are you here?"

 

    "This is Mary, John's fiancée."

 

    "Let me guess. Either she's substituting for the good doctor for a case, or she is the case. Personally, I'd put my money on the latter."

 

    "What makes you say that?"

 

    "Because John is probably furious at you, and no self respecting person would subject themselves to you, knowing what you are like, unless it benefits them in some way."

 

    Sherlock opens his mouth to say something scathing, but he pauses when Mary firmly holds his knee.

 

    "Yes, I hired him for a case. We believe that my father's life is in danger and he has only a few more days to live until someone kills him."

 

    "And what makes you say that?"

 

    "These." Sherlock says handing her the envelope.

 

    "My father escaped from the Ku Klux Klan when he was a young man. We think they have come to kill him."

 

    "Why now?" Donovan asks perplexed, "It has been decades surly."

 

    "That is where I come in," Sherlock announces, "I can get to the bottom of this in no time flat. I just need you to provide police protection."

 

    "Oh, no you don't, Holmes. This is a police matter. Maybe even Interpol. This is not for you. You to take over. There mere presence of your involvement automatically casts doubt of anything you dig up."

 

    "But I hired him!" Mary protests, "If he isn't involved, my father might die. How would that look for your department when the media finds out that he could have lived and killer could have been caught if he had only been involved."

 

    Donovan sighs. "Okay. Fine. Personally, I believe we can do this just fine without him, but just this once I will allow it." She turns to Sherlock.

    "You had better share _everything_ you find. And don't even think of swanning off after the suspect without calling us. The second I find out about it, you are under arrest."

 

    Sherlock looks like he caught wind of a foul smell, but he nods all the same.

 

    "Good. Now, tell me everything."

* * *

 

    "You did what?!"

 

    Sherlock has to commend Mary. In all the time he has lived with - and annoyed - John, he has never made him turn that shade of puce before.

 

    "It would be very stupid not to utilize every resource at my disposal to save my dad's life. What would you have me do?"

 

    "Mary, you know how I feel about him."

 

    "I am not asking you to forgive him. All I ask is that you tolorate him long enough for my dad to be out of danger."

 

    John sighs and runs his hand across his face. "All right. Fine. You win."

 

    The smile Mary gives him could light up all of London for how bright it is.  She gives him an big hug - almost a pounce for all of the emotion she put in it - and kisses him within am inch of his life.

 

    Feeling awkward, Sherlock looks around Mary's flat. Everything feels bubbly and warm, just like her. The entire room feels like stepping into a Spring garden. On the mantle, front and center is a picture of her American parents. Sherlock can she the resemblance.

 

    There is a picture of John, and several more of her with various friends. There's and old Uni picture with her and Molly wearing ugly Christmas jumpers. That explains how John and Mary got together that least.

 

    The Molly I. This picture is more like the Molly he had come to know. Mousy, terrible taste in jumpers - clothes in general really - and horribly nervous. The Molly he saw after coming hone though? A completely different person. In many ways she is the same - kind, loyal, and fiercely intelligent. But now she seems comfortable in her own skin. It's an attractive quality.

 

    "Sherlock Holmes. Earth to Sherlock Holmes. Come in Sherlock Holmes."

 

    Sherlock snaps out of his thoughts and focuses on John and Mary's expectant faces.

 

    "What?"

 

    "We asked," John says slowly, "What are you going to do about the Molly situation."

 

    "Situation? What situation?"

 

    "Molly stuch her neck out for you pulling off that swan dive off Bart's. Now that you are alive in the eyes of the law, it is only a matter of time before her neck is on the chopping block."

 

    "Molly is not a turkey. And Mycroft will take care of it. He is the reason we are all in this mess to begin with. It's only fair."

 

    Mary hums. "It's a good thing she has Tom. This is a very stressful and scary situation. And there is nothing better than having big strong arms wrapped around you when life gets rocky." She snuggles into John as if to make a point.

 

    "Well look at the time," Sherlock bolts up feeling awkward, I should be going now."

 

    "Hold on," John says getting up, "Let me walk you out."

 

    Sherlock looks at him perplexed, but waits for him all the same.

 

    They walk out of the flat without a word passing between them. Sherlock makes to go, but a warm hand on his shoulder stops him.

 

    "Don't think I told you this, but thanks. For saving my life."

 

    Sherlock waves John's thanks away. "You would have done the same thing for me."

 

    "I would wouldn't I?" John sighs. "I forgive you, you know? For making me watch. For making me mourn you. But I don't know if I can trust you. Looking back, I am not sure if I ever should have to begin with."

 

    "What do you mean?"

 

    "I mean that for ever nice thing you have ever done for me, you've done three more horrible things. Sometimes I think you see me as a test subject or a tool before you see a person."

 

    "That's not true."

 

    "Baskerville."

 

    "Okay, it's a little true. But you forgave me."

 

    "Yeah. I did. But you didn't change. Not really. Look, I know that deep down, you are a really nice guy. I've seen it. The problem is that you go out of your way to make people forget that. Even your friends.

    " I've got a lot of issues, Sherlock. PTSD from the war. PTSD from watching you die. Family baggage from my childhood that still needs to be sorted out. I don't mind helping you and being there for you. I just have to know you are in my corner too."

 

    "So now what? Is that it for us?"

 

    "I don't know. I don't want it to be. But until I can trust you to be less selfish, I can't do this. My mental health depends on it."

 

    Sherlock keeps are carefully neutral face, but inside he's screaming. How dare John throw their friendship away. After everything they've been through.

 

    It is of no matter. John will naturally get involved in the case. And after a while, he'll realize that his life is so much better with him than without. Maybe even Mary will join in. Sherlock is becoming quite fond of her.

 

    "I'm going back inside," John says.

 

    "You do that. Oh and by the way, I like Mary."

 

    "Yeah. She's something wonderful isn't she?"

 

    "Yes. She has the benefit of being not dull. Which is more than I can say about your other girlfriends."

 

    "Oi!" John smacks his arm, but he's smiling too. "You know, they really were though. What was I even thinking?"

 

    "That you were lonely and horny?"

 

    John smacks him again. "Honestly Sherlock, can you stay out of trouble for five minutes?"

 

    Sherlock smiles a Cheshire smile. "Never."

 

    He would come to regret those words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who are upset at John, don't be. Think about it. Sherlock is not a good person or friend. Take the Hound of Baskerville for instance. John has PTSD for crying out loud. You don't do that to your only friend, let alone a traumatized war vet. John would like to be friends again, but not at the expense of his mental health. Sherlock will have to redeem himself first.


	6. Pieces of the Puzzle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom and Sherlock meet. Molly is very much done with Sherlock right now. Donovan finds a nasty surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, nearly 300 hits. And here I was thinking it would stay at under 100. You guys are great. Thanks so much!

    Sherlock wakes up the next morning feeling alive and refreshed. He puts of his aubergine button down shirt, his only pair of jeans, and tossles his hair just so. He gives himself a quick misting of the cologne Molly bought him the Christmas the Woman died and looks in the mirror at the finished results. If this doesn't get Molly going, he doesn't know what will.

 

    Yes, he remembers she's dating someone. And no, he has no desire to go out with her. But Molly's always been a bit more subject to persuasion when she's feeling a bit aroused. And he needs her to change her mind about his lab access. Things being as they are, he is hesitant to go to Mycroft just yet for fear that he'll muck up things or use the situation to get a more controlling grip on him.

 

    No, Mycroft will be a last resort.

 

    In the mean time, he'll rely on tried and true methods. He eschews his Belstaff, what with the weather being unseasonably warm and him not wanting to be recognized, he heads outside to hail a cab.

 

    Sherlock sneaks in the same way he came the other day. He hides as he hears Molly's assistant leave the room to go on lunch. He waits a few minutes to make sure he isn't coming back and slinks out of his hiding spot.

 

    Normally he doesn't think this, but getting fat may have been the best thing to happen to Molly. Molly has always been aesthetically pleasing; in a way, she still is. But she is far more sure of herself now. As if she finally fits in her own skin. There's something oddly fascinating about it.

 

    "Sherlock? What are you doing here?"

 

    Sherlock hisses to himself. He can't believe that he was so caught up in his thoughts that Molly noticed him just standing there. He had plans for a dramatic entrance and everything.

 

    "Hello, Molly. You look lovely today."

 

    She flushes an endearing shade of pink. "Thank you. I just bought these. I was starting to burst out of my clothes so I bought a new wardrobe." She then goes from pink to red when she realizes what she just said.

 

    Sherlock just rolls with it. "Yes, well, the extra weight you've gained is certainly figure enhancing. You have filled out nicely."

 

    Molly looks at him, gave torn between flattery and offence. "Sherlock, what do you want?"

 

    He visibly perks up. "I am glad that you asked. I have a case involving John's new fiancée, Mary."

 

    "They finally got engaged?" Molly interrupts squealing, "Oh, I am so happy to hear that!"

 

    "Yes, that is all well and good. But she has hired me to prevent her father from being murdered. And if you want Mary's father to be able to walk her down the aisle, I'll need laboratory access."

 

    Molly visibly deflates at that. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. But I can't help you."

 

    Sherlock bristles. Clearly sweet talking is not going to work. "Don't you care if he lives or dies? For Mary's sake?"

 

    "Don't you start. Of course I care. But I can't afford to. Can't you have Mycroft help you?"

 

    "Yes, but his help comes with so many strings attached that it isn't worth it. Outside of a last resort anyway."

 

    "Now who's the cold hearted one?"

 

    "Me?"

 

    "Who else?"

 

   "Am I interrupting something?"

 

    The two whirl around to face the new voice. The man looks to be about Sherlock's height and build, but with ginger hair. He's wearing surgical scrubs with a mask under his chin. In his hand is a rather large bag with fish and chips judging by the smell.

 

    "Tom!" Molly squeaks, "What brings you by?"

 

    "Our lunch date?"

 

   Molly smacks her forehead. "I forgot about that."

 

    "Hey, I forgot last week. It's just your turn now."

 

   She giggles and glances at him demurely.  Sherlock just rolls his eyes.

 

    "You must be my replace- I mean Molly's boyfriend."

 

    Tom looks at him in suspicion. "Yes, Molly and I are together. Who are you?"

 

    Seeing the impending train wreck, Molly jumps in to do some damage control. "Tom, sweetie. Do you remember when I told you I knew the guy who jumped off the roof?"

 

    Tom looks perplexed on top of the suspicion. "Yes? Is this his identical twin?"

 

    "Um, no. Actually he didn't die when he jumped because I helped him fake his death."

 

    Tom now looks as if his brain broke.

 

    "So yeah. Um. Surprise?"

 

    "Molls, why would you do that to a wanted criminal? Or at least wanted at the time."

 

    "Because if I didn't, he would have died for real in addition to three other people."

 

    Tom looks at her a little bit starstruck. "That's amazing. You're like Jane Bond or something. So why the argument?"

 

    "Because," Sherlock interrupts, "She would rather obstruct justice than let me use the lab."

 

    "Are you on a case?" Tom asks.

 

    "Yes. A man's life depends on it."

 

    Molly scowls at him. "Aren't you always complaining that your brother is the government? Ask him for help."

 

    "Ask the man who caused the mess I'm in? No thank you."

 

    "Wait," Tom inputs, "What mess?"

 

    "The one that led me to fake my death. Do keep up. Molly, the man you replaced me with is an idiot."

 

    "I'm the idiot? From what I gather, this Brooks guy - or Moriarty, or whatever his name is - might have given you the spade, but you dug your own grave."

 

   "Are you saying that this is all my fault?"

 

    "No, but you didn't help. You are extremely rude and disrespectful. How dare you talk to Molly that way. After all she has done for you."

 

    "Shut up!"

 

    The two men stop bickering and turn to the normally quiet woman.

 

    "Tom, don't waste your breath. He's not listening and you are not helping." She turns to Sherlock. "Get out, Sherlock. Get out of my morgue and don't come back until you can give me proof that you can be here. Once word gets out that I helped you, things will be harder for me. Don't make it worse."

 

    "Fine then," Sherlock sniffs, "But if Mary's father dies, just know you did nothing to help save his life."

 

    Molly turns red at his livid she is. All she can do is make unintelligible sounds and shake in anger. Tom rubs small circles on her back.

 

    "He's not worth it, doc. Why don't we take that lunch date before our lunches are over. I'll share my fries with you. And later, you can send me the pictures."

 

    Molly looks at the greasy bag longingly and nods. She leaves to wash up which left Sherlock and Tom alone.

 

    "Well, I suppose I'll have to set up my own lab. Because I am not letting Mycroft have more control over me."

 

    "What is your problem?"

 

    "My problem? What is yours? Molly is clearly overweight and here you are enabling her."

 

    Tom huffs a laugh. "You're really something else you know? Molls talks about you all the time. Makes you sound like a demigod of towering intellect and cheekbones. And maybe you deserve all that praise. Maybe you're just having an off day because you want to help Mary. I don't know. But that doesn't give you the right to lash out at people. Least of all Molly."

 

    Sherlock groans in frustration, "Just once I would like someone to say to me 'I'm glad you're not dead, Sherlock. Let me help you save a man's life.'"

 

    Tom shrugs. "Maybe you're going about this the wrong way."

 

    "How do you mean?"

 

    "My grandmama used to say that if everyone listened  more and talked less, the world would be a better place. Think about it. If she gives you lab access, she could lose her job, and you wouldn't be able to use the lab anymore."

 

    "And what do you propose, oh keeper of wisdom?"

 

    "Find a work around. Molly wouldn't mind helping you if you work with her."

 

    "Yes. Well."

 

    "Now if you will excuse me, I have a hot date that I have to get to."

 

    Tom practically waltzes out the room, presumably to meet up with Molly. While Sherlock would prefer her to stay single, he has to admit that she has done worse.

 

    Then again, most people are better boyfriends than "Jim from IT".

 

    Deciding it better to regroup, Sherlock slinks out and heads home to study the case with what he has. Time is not on his side.

* * *

 

    Donovan remembers when she was a fresh faced bobby on the beat. She'd look longingly at the DI's offices and imagine herself sitting in their seats instead. These days when she looks around her office, she feels a since of accomplishment. But on days like these?

 

    Well, she finds herself looking at the bobbies' desks.

 

    " Are you absolutely certain about this?" she asks the forensics officer.

 

    "I know it's bad, Chief. But it is as plan as the nose on my face. We have a serial killer on the loose. And these appear to be hate crimes."

 

    Donovan groans. A part of her wants to point out that the CI has a very distinctive nose, but it wouldn't change what she is looking at in the photo. A few days after the first crucifixion, a maintenance worker stumbled upon another body. A Jewish man about the same age as the last victim and killed in the same manner.

 

    And this had to be the week that Sherlock came back from the dead.

 

    If there is one thing that Donovan hates, it's hate crimes and serial kills. And whoever this person is happens to be both. And to make matters worse, sooner or later the public will find out and there will be anbugly political storm. If she doesn't use ever tool at her disposal, it could very well mean her job.

 

    And one of those tools is Sherlock Holmes.

 

    She looks up at the man standing awkwardly, waiting to be dismissed. She absentmindedly waves her hand in his general direction and he gratefully leaves. This Sherlock situation is a sticky one. On the one hand, he is a proven liability. Not sharing evidence, theft, tampering with the crime scene. Not to mention the fact that when they catch this psycho, his lawyer may have the court disregard key evidence just because he was involved.

 

    Still, she is not sure she could live with herself if she did not cover every option available.

 

    DI Donovan leans her head out her door. "Stanley. I'm headed out."

 

    "Meeting, Chief?"

 

    "Something like that. Following a possible lead. I should be back in a few hours."

 

    "Need any help?"

 

    "No. It's best that I do this alone."

* * *

 

    Officially Sherlock is not pouting. He is merely contemplating his things have turned out they way they have between Molly and himself. How their friendship has broken down. How he is no longer the centre of her universe.

 

    Mrs. Hudson, however, is insisting that he's pouting.

 

    "If you should be nicer to Dr. Hooper, Sherlock. Now that John's moved on, she is your only other option."

 

    Sherlock doesn't even dignify that absurdity with a response.

 

    Suddenly, there is a knock at the door. "Who is it?" Mrs. Hudson calls out.

 

    "DI Donovan. Is Sherlock Holmes here?"

 

    Mrs. Hudson grabs a pillow and smacks him on the head. "What did you do? Why is that dreadful wan here to see you?"

 

    "Why are you hitting me?"

 

    "Because the police only come here for help on a case or if you've done something. And how does she know you're alive?"

 

    "I don't know. Go ask her?"

 

    There's another knock at the door. "Mrs. Hudson, may I come in. I know he's in there. Please, it's urgent."

 

    "It appears you owe me an apology, Mrs. Hudson. It looks like she has a case for me."

 

    "Why would you say that? She doesn't like you at all."

 

    "True. But if she was here to arrest me or search the flat - keeping in mind that I haven't done anything - she wouldn't be waiting to come in."

 

    She sighs in frustration. "Fine. But I still don't like her."

 

    "Neither do I. But for her to swallow her pride and disdain to ask me for help, it must be pretty serious."

 

    Mrs. Hudson harrumphs but opens the door all the same. "Officer." She greets before going back to her flat, not very eager to stay.

 

    "Hello Holmes," Donovan says as she goes to sit in John's chair. Sherlock holds back a scathing retort, if only in the name of curiosity.

 

    "DI Sally Donovan. What? No drugs bust?"

 

    "Not today. No, I have come with a proposition for you."

 

    Sherlock effects a bored persona, but inside, he's buzzing with deductions. Obviously, she's here to ask for his help for a case. But which one. She is noticeably more frazzled and tired than she was a few days ago. Balance of probability suggests it's in reference to the corpse with the Star of David carved into him. No doubt she's here for preemptive PR purposes. Must have been a a twist in the case. Can't be someone important or Mrs. Hudson would have mentioned it. So logically...

 

    "Let me guess. The Nazi is a serial killer."

 

    "Got it in one." Donovan doesn't even bat an eye at the deduction. Sherlock is both pleased and disappointed. "And when word gets out that you are alive, eventually the public and eventually government officials will demand we work with you to stop him."

 

    "So the Commissioner has told you to persuade me to help."

 

    "Actually, he doesn't know I'm here."

 

    Donovan has successfully gotten his full attention. "Explain."

 

    "Look. You and I both know that we need each other right now. I need you to help my department stay out of hot water, and you need a case to stay sane. So I have a deal for you. If I convince the Commissioner to bring you on for the case, I will give you a lab and other resources to help solve the case you're working on now, if you can play by my rules."

 

   "Go on."

 

    "I'll make sure everything is written down, but basically, you obey my orders. You share all of the information you uncover. No taking things home with you. No running after criminals - at least without backup. And the deal lasts as long as this case."

 

    Normally, Sherlock would protest or haggle. But the truth is, he needs Donovan more than she needs him right now. And if he can show John that he shouldn't give up on their friendship too...

 

    "All right, Donovan. You've got yourself a deal."

 

    For the first time ever, she looks pleased with him. "Excellent. I will talk to the Commissioner, and I will call you in the morning. Is your number still the same?"

 

    He nods before getting up to walk her out.

 

    Before she walks down the stairs, Donovan turns to face him. "Thanks, Holmes. I can't believe I'm saying this, but you are a life saver."

 

    Sherlock has no idea as to how to respond to that, so he just awkwardly smiles. Donovan is already dialling the Commissioner's number as he closer the door.

 

    Sherlock flops back on the sofa, very much pleased with himself. Though his life will never be like it was before, at least he is one step closer to getting it there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think that this is going to be as long as my other story (if you are here for the kink and don't mind non-con, check it out) since the main focus of my story will be the murder mystery. That being said, I will devote time to it. (I've all ready teased it quite a bit.) I don't want to detract from the story, but it will be there. I may even devote a chapter or two to it.


	7. Calm Before the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donovan plans a press conference. Molly has a panic attack. Tom is bae.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last the long promised stuffing scene. Nothing wild. Just adorable bonding. Special thanks to Zo for commenting. I appreciate it.

    It took the better part of the afternoon, but Donovan manages to convince the commissioner to bring Sherlock onto the case. Surprisingly that was the easy part. The hard part is breaking the news to the other officers.

 

    It went about as well as anyone could have hoped. Which is to say not well.

 

    Fifteen minutes of shouting at grown men and women to stop acting like rioting children has Donovan questioning her career choices. Another five minute spiel of threatening them of being on desk duty if they leak anything to the media makes her remember again. All that's left it for her to type up a speech and set a date for the press conference. There's just one problem.

 

    Knowing Holmes, he hasn't done a thing to shield Dr. Hooper. Donovan has no idea why that's so hard for him to do. The man faked his own death for three other people. Why can't he do this little thing as well?

 

    She sighs and shakes her head. No matter. She's the DI for Serious Crimes. She's more than capable of taking things into her own hands. Plus, she'll be working closely enough with a certain consulting psychopath later.  She can shame him then. In the mean  time, she's got a phone call to make.

* * *

 

    There are few things that make Molly as happy as a lazy day. She's lounging on the counch watching a classic Doctor Who marathon on her day off. Her cat, Toby - in a rare display of clinginess - is happily asleep on Molly's plush belly.

 

    The episode is nearly over when her cell goes off. Absentmindedly, she grabs it off a nearby table and answers.

 

    "'Lo?"

 

    "Hey, Molls," comes Sally Donovan's tired voice, "Are you vertical right now?"

 

    "Um, no. I'm on the counch right now." Molly is quite anxious now. Any time Sally asks "Are you vertical?" it is never anything good.

 

    "Good. Stay like that. I don't need you passing out on me."

 

    "Sally, you're scaring me."

 

    "Sorry. Remember that body that was nailed to a cross?"

 

    "The guy with the Star of David in his chest? I remember."

 

    "Well, another morgue in London alerted us to another corpse found in a similar way. We are treating this as a series of hate crimes by a serial killer."

 

    "Sally, that's horrid! But why do I need to be sitting down?"

 

    "Because it's only a matter of time before everyone finds out about Holmes. And with the way this case is shaping up to be, I have to get his help on the case ASAP. I already asked him, and he said yes. But it won't be long before everyone puts two and two together."

 

    Molly lets out a distressed sigh. "What am I going to do?"

 

    "I can stress that you are not in any legal trouble. But I think you are going to need a good lawyer."

 

      "Maybe John's sister, Harry, will help. She's a lawyer."

 

    "Good. You've got a plan of attack. In the mean time, try not to work yourself into a panic attack. I'm not holding the press conference until the day after tomorrow. Call Meena or Tom to watch over you."

 

    "Right. Okay."

 

    "Bye, Molly. Take care of yourself."

 

    The DI hangs up leaving Molly to stare blankly at her phone. Meena is out of the question as she is out of town visiting her mother. Tom's at work, and Molly really doesn't want to bother him. She could call Sherlock seeing as it's his fault in the first place.

 

    Right. Tom it is.

 

    Molly quickly dials his number before she can talk herself out of it. The phone rings and rings for what feels like minutes. And just before she goes to hang up, the most melodic sound comes through the tinny speakers.

 

    "Hey, Molls. Couldn't stand to be away from me for a single day?"

 

    Molly let's out an nervous giggle. She can just picture his cheesy brow wiggle.

 

    "Molly? Are you alright?"

 

    "No, Tom. I'm not."

 

    "Do you need me to come over?"

 

    "Please," she says with a watery sigh."

 

* * *

 

    Molly paces back and forth working herself into an emotional wreck. She feels guilty dragging Tom here from his shift. Sure, she knows that he's happy to, but the fact the she needed him to be here makes her feel guilty.

 

    Even worse, he and everyone else associated with her is sure to suffer for the crimes she's committed. And yet, if she could do it all over again, there isn't anything she'd do differently.

 

   Someone is  jiggling a key into her lock, and Molly nearly makes a run for the cricket bat until she realizes that no one with a key to her apartment would hurt her. A moment later, her thoughts are confirmed as Tom steps inside with his arms laden with grocery bags.

 

    "Sorry I'm late. Had to make a quick stop."

 

    "Tom, you didn't have to do all this."

 

    "Yes I did. You're going to tell me what's wrong. Then we're gonna spend the rest of the day watching all of your favourite movies and eating all of you favourite snacks."

 

    Molly starts to mist up. "Thomas Harding, you are so good to me."

 

     Tom gives a satisfied smirk and puffs his chest out with pride.

 

    Tom gets to work setting up the food and movies (it's primarily Monty Python) as Molly brings him up to date a almost succeeds in not having a mental break down. Almost.

 

   "What am I going to do? Sally says that I'm not in any legal trouble, but I could still lose my job. And not only that, but I'd never work in medicine again. I'm  ruined. My life is over."

 

    She feels Tom's wiry frame envelope her much softer one. He doesn't say anything - just stands there with her head tucked under his chin. They stand there for a bit swaying to a tune only he can hear.

 

    "This is what we're going to do." Molly startles at the sudden noise. Tom strokes her back and continues his line if thought. "You've already said the best thing for you is to talk to your lawyer friend. So you and I will give her a call in the morning and figure out a way to get ahead of this. But in the mean time, I believe we have a date with ungodly amounts of junk food and classic British comedy."

 

   He pops in the first DVD and pulls out a strawberry swirl cheesecake as it loads up. Molly takes in look at it as as her mouth begins to water, she knows neither one of them are really going to be watching anything at all.

 

    She watches with peaked interest as he cuts of a piece with a fork and lifts it up to her lips. Molly moans in delight as the cold, sweet creaminess, mixed with tangy strawberry melts on her tongue. The graham cracker crust - just the right amount of crunchy and sweet - is a lovely accompaniment. It isn't very long until she eats it all. She let's out a satisfied sigh as Tim's magic fingers run over the expanse of her belly. He takes the time to knead her soft skin, trace her barely there rolls, and fondle her heft. Most people would be rather full after eating an entire pie, but they both know Molly can fit more inside herself

 

    A lot more.

 

    He gets out a savoury dish next to ward off a sugar spike. It's lemon pepper tripe - marinated, battered, and fried. Molly smiles as she remembers how Tom informed her that tripe could be delicious. She called him a liar until he took her to his favourite chippy. Now it's the only way she'll eat it. It's salty and tangy with just the right amount of spicy. The entire container is gone in minutes. And the moisture in her mouth with it.

 

    She motions her boyfriend for something  to drink. He continues to massage her gradually swelling stomach with one hand and pulls out a bottle of ginger beer with the other. Molly takes delicate sips, careful not to fill herself with too much carbonation. She hums in delight as the cold drink soothes her dry throat and stretches her stomach just a little more. After a series of burps and belches (Molly tries and fails to muffle each one. Tom laughs at her as she grows redder and redder) she's ready for more food.

 

    One by one she packs more and more food and ginger beer inside herself. Mint pudding,  fried chicken, jammy dodgers, the list goes on and on. At some point Tom has to pull down her trousers so her belly can expand freely. Finally, as her belly is now taking up the bulk of her lap, she can squeeze no more food in her. Molly's belly, formerly a delightfully squishy mass, looks as if she is ready to give birth to twins.  There's very little give - her fat stretched tight over the pale dome.

 

    "All right love. Time for a good nap." Tom pulls out a small bottle of skin cream and rubs it in his hands in an attempt to warm it up. Sadly, it is still rather cold as his rubs it along her bloated abdomen.

 

    Molly luxuriates in the feeling of those magical hands soothe her stomach. Tom has the gift of knowing just where his touch would be most appreciated. Which is why when they start to wonder elsewhere, she never complains.

 

    "I'm about a stone and a half away from my weight goal."

 

    He looks up from where he'd been paying special attention to her hips. "Really? That's good to hear."

 

    "Thanks. It got me thinking about if I should set a higher one."

 

    "Why? We already calculated that your goal weight is the highest you can go before health risks start cropping up."

 

    "Yes, but then I could stay home all day and not worry about dealing with all this."

 

    "What did I say about worrying?"

 

    "I'm sorry. It's just so hard."

 

    "I  know. Come here." Tom gathers her up in his arm and rubs soothing circle across her scalp. Molly sighs and let's herself just be in the moment.

 

    Eventually she falls asleep in his lap, belly pleasantly stuffed with the title menu playing on repeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to do something that I rarely see in feeder/feedee relationships. And that's a feeder who encourages his (or her) feedee to enjoy themselves within the limits of their goal weight. As much fun as it is to read the usual stories where the feedee gets fatter and fatter, I feel like it would take away from Dr. Hooper's awesomeness if she just focused on food. I also wanted her and Tom to be adorable because I need some fluff to balance out the darker stuff that will be in here.


	8. Changing Perception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The press conference is a circus. Harry finally meets Sherlock. Mycroft is a good bro.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to owo for your comment as well as all the new readers who have joined us. I appreciate each and every one of you 
> 
> There are a large number of fics that love to bash Harry Watson and I don't know why. Aside from being gay and an alcoholic, she's a blank slate. I think that Mofftiss forgot about her (I am 85% certain that they did since we don't hear about her outside of those two scenes in ASiP)

    When Lestrade was the DI, he would loudly complain about press conferences. "A pack of rabid wolves and starving vultures descending to feast upon what scrap of sanity you have left."

 

    Quite frankly, Donovan has to agree. Everything about this case is as salacious as they come. She's straying away from the gorier details like _how_ he kills his victims. But the moment she says "serial killer targeting the Jewish community" she can see them all brimming with questions. To there credit, they stay quiet waiting for the Q &A.

 

    That is until she mentions that a certain consulting detective is still alive.

 

    All sense of decorum goes right out the window. All at once cameras flash all around. A roaring din floods her ears until she cannot distinguish between one sound and the next.

 

    But she knows what they're saying.  She's had waking nightmares of this moment for years. A part of her always questioned the circumstances surrounding Sherlock's death. Perhaps it was due to her guilt or because she's a good detective, but she spent many of the months after The Fall imaging what would happen to her if he was actually still alive.

 

    She knows they're calling her a hypocrite. And she is considering how she treated Lestrade when he was calling the shots. But she can also admit when she's wrong - eventually. It doesn't matter to her anymore that her squad can do their job just fine without him. But at the end of the day, her job is to serve and protect. And if Sherlock Holmes makes that job easier, Sally Donovan is not going to complain.

* * *

    Harry Watson has to admire DI Donovan's resolve and professionalism. As the reporters' grow more and more frantic with their questions, she stands there unflappable as all those lights go off.

 

    If it were her, she'd ruin her three year sobriety streak.

 

    "Do you see why we need you?"

 

    Harry looks at her worried friend. Dr. Hooper is absolutely trembling in her seat. Tom's presence by her side is probably the only thing keeping her somewhat composed.

 

    "I think that at this point, all we really need to focus on is the media. I'll see what I can do about getting that taken care of for you. Other than that, we'll just have to wait until Bart's makes the first move."

 

    "What?" Molly's voice goes up and octave or two. It's quite impressive.

 

    "I think what she means is are you sure that's going to be enough?" Tom explains as diplomatically as possible.

 

    "The hospital at it's core is an organization," Harry explains, "if there is enough good press, they are less likely to fire you. I was a PR representative before I took the bar."

 

    It's Tom's turn to look freaked out. "But what about Sherlock? I don't really know the guy, but from what I've gathered, he isn't the best at public image."

 

    "Don't worry. I'll talk to him."

 

* * *

 

    After talking to John for about an hour on the ins and outs of one consulting detective's psyche (and here she thought _she_ had issues), Harry heads over to 221B Baker Street.

 

    Mrs. Hudson lets her in with an armload of biscuits - a quarter of which she puts in her purse for later. Before she came over, her brother warned her that Sherlock was not the neatest of people. Harry took this to mean either typical bachelor messy or absentminded genius messy. She was not expecting _this_.

 

    The walls are littered with newspaper print outs of men dressed like ghosts with pointy heads and burning crosses. There are snippets of articles of American lynchings and Neo-Nazis terrorizing anyone who is not white. But the bulk of the research pinned to his walls seems to centre around something called "shills" and the true Hebrews.

 

    "Hello? Anybody home?" Harry places the biscuits on a cleared area on the kitchen counter. Hearing no one, she takes a closer look the papered walls. John mentioned that Sherlock was looking into the situation with the orange pips. Which had something to do with antisemitism. Somehow. Harry does not claim to be an expert on these things. Still it looks like he's looking into this laser like focus. It's a little scary to be honest.

 

    She turns around to see a rapier pointed almost lazily at her. And holding that rapier is Sherlock Holmes looking at her as if he expected her to be more interesting.

 

    Somehow she feels vaguely insulted.

 

    "May I help you?" he drawls.

 

    "Yes. First you can lower your weapon."

 

    He looks at the rapier as if just noticing he had it. "Ah. Yes, of course. You'll forgive my caution. The whole world knows I'm alive now and I have  quite a few enemies."

 

    "Of course. How silly of me. I'm-"

 

    "Harriet Watson - Harry for short. John's alcoholic sister."

 

    "Recovering alcoholic. Haven't had a drink in years."

 

    "Yes, yes. What do you want? A metal?"

 

    "No. What I want is for you to sit down and have a conversation with me instead of hiding behind your intellect. It's not impressive that you figured out who I am. I know I look like a genderbent John."

 

    Sherlock frowns but sits down anyway. Harry offers Sherlock the biscuits that Mrs. Hudson sent up. He wound up taking the entire tin.

 

    "So what brings you here today? Come to berate me on scaring your baby brother?"

 

    "No. You did what you had to do. Johnny will get over it. And besides, after what I put him through, I am the last person who should be throwing stones."

 

    He sits up a bit straighter. "Then why are you here? Surely not to fatten me up with biscuits."

 

    "Nah. Though Dr. Hooper would love to see that. Actually, I'm here to talk about your resurrection moving froward."

 

    That first sentence raises quite a few questions, but none that are pressing right now. "Go on."

 

    "I'm going to cut to the chase. You are a huge jerk."

 

    He shrugs. It's completely true and he's been called worse.

 

    "You do a lot of good. And plenty of people admire you. But no one wants to be in your corner because you are disrespectful. And that's going to be a problem for those who are sticking their necks out for you."

 

    "I'm not going to stop being me just to appease her."

 

    "I'm not asking you to. Just try not to  go out of your way to antagonize people. Molly put a lot on the line when she saved your life that day. It's the least you can do "

 

    Sherlock huffs in response, but he doesn't protest. Harry chooses to take that as a win.

 

    "Sherlock, I've been where you are now," she continues, "I was one of the the top PR representatives  for a major company. Life was great until they found out I was a lesbian.

 

    "I spent years working my butt off to just watch it all crumble around me. My wife did what she could to support me through it. But instead of being grateful, I turned to the bottle. And I'm a mean drunk. So it's no wonder she left me. Haven't seen her since either.

 

    "My life kinda went straight down the tubes until Johnny boy gave me a ring one day. Blubbering about how he's watched too many people due and he can't take it any more.  It was kinda hard comforting him since I had a hangover at the time. Gave me the wakeup call I needed to get my butt in gear.

 

    "Don't wait until you hit rock bottom to make your life better."

 

    Sherlock doesn't say anything, but the quiet contemplative look shows that he's at least considering her words. Harry pats his knee like Mrs. Hudson does and shows herself out.

* * *

 

    Mycroft Holmes believes that the universe hates him. He has an extremely rare night off and made plans for a relaxing night in. A nice long soak followed by one of his favourite classic movies with a good wine and devil's food cake. He's just about to get into the tub when his personal phone goes off.

 

    Mycroft growls and hopes that whoever it is won't talk too long.

 

    He rolls his eyes when he sees Sherlock's name on the caller ID. He can't imagine what he could possibly want. He only calls when he's spectacularly messed up a case, needs top secret clearance, or  whenever Mummy forces him to.

 

    "What do you want, William? And make it quick. I'm busy."

 

    "First name, Mycroft? Have I interrupted something? A special night with a Victoria sponge?"

 

    "Get to the point or I am hanging up."

 

    He hears a long suffering sigh on the other end. Sherlock says something but it's too indistinct to make out.

 

    "Say what you need to say and say it clearly. I have better things to be doing."

 

    "I have a favour to ask of you," he grits out.

 

    "What have you done now, brother mine?"

 

    "I've done nothing. And the favour is not for me so much as it is for Molly."

 

    "And what could Dr. Hooper possibly want?"

 

    "Protection. It's only a matter of time before the media realizes that she helped dupe the world. And when they do, they'll come after her."

 

    "And destroy her in the process," Mycroft realizes, "I never gave much thought to her safety. It's a rather serious oversight."

 

    "Everyone forgets about her." Sherlock says in an attempt to be comforting. It is not helpful, but the effort is appreciated.

 

    "Tell you what, Sherlock. Just this once, I won't require anything of you."

 

    "Really?" Mycroft can almost imagine the bewildered puppy like face his brother is making.

 

    "Don't be mistaken. This is not a sudden lapse of generosity. It would be in poor taste if I made you do my legwork for this. Mummy would have a fit."

 

    "And we mustn't upset Mummy." There is no sarcasm in his voice. Their mother always seems to know when her boys are making each other do their dirty work. It's terrifying no matter who her ire is directed at.

 

    "I'll call you later to hash out the finer details as you know her better than I."

 

    "That is perfectly acceptable. I suppose you'll be wanting to get back to doing unspeakable things with confectionery goods."

 

   Mycroft hangs up. And just to spite him, he takes his devil's food cake into the bath with him.

 

    It surprisingly makes the experience better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is terrible. But not completely so. Otherwise Mummy would be very cross.
> 
> Sherlock is a fun character, but my biggest hang up is how they write him. He is often mean for the sake of being mean, and he doesn't even have a background to justify it. (Eurus doesn't count since he blocked her from his memory.) I know he has an inferiority complex, but the writers have not really done much to address it. They just made him a different kind of terrible.
> 
> Side note: there are a surprising number of people who hate Jewish people, but consider themselves to be the true Hebrews. I am not certain the logic behind that, but it is kind of terrifying in a way.


	9. Surprises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a revelation. Mary has a scare. Harry is awesome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all those who patiently waited for this chapter. I had a case of writer's block. I attempted to Brit pick to the best if my ability. If I missed anything, please let me know.

    "I'd never thought I'd say this, but I miss Anderson."

 

    Donovan cackles at Sherlock's pouting face.

 

    After Anderson quit, the department hired a new forensic specialist in his place. Wallace Allan is everything that Anderson was not: professional, thorough, and very good at his job. Sherlock was actually quite excited to work with him (and by that he means bully him into being his assistant) but Allan is made of much sterner stuff than Sherlock expected.

 

    All of his soul stabbing deductions, snide comments, and out right insults were ignored. Sherlock spent the next hour trying to get the man to break. The tipping point came when Sherlock started reorganizing his supplies. The lanky man was promptly kick out with explicit instructions to stay out "until you can act like a civilized individual".

 

    "Oh, Sherlock, I have been waiting to see this moment for years." Donovan wipes a tear away.

 

    "I would like to remind you that I am here doing you a favor."

 

    "No, you are here for quid pro quo.  But I'll stop. Still, he has a point, Holmes. If you can't be a team player, then what's the point of having you around?"

 

    "So I can do all the brain work and you can follow my orders and save the day?"

 

    "Nice try, but England already has a queen. And she doesn't need a consort. She has Prince Phillip for that."

 

    Sherlock sniffs at her in derision.

 

    "Come on, you posh git. He isn't asking you to be his boot licker or anything demeaning like that. Just go in there, apologize, and treat him like an equal."

 

    "Must I?"

 

    "Yes. Remember Sherlock, you are a guest here. And guests can overstay their welcome."

 

    Sherlock sighs and heads back over to the forensic department.

 

    He gives Allan a half hearted apology, which he accepts - understanding that this is the best he can expect to get.

 

    He places Sherlock on "observation duty." Which is basically just him looking at crime scene photos and writing down his deductions. It's a bit frustrating since he can't be on the scene and look at everything first hand and not through the he eyes of some halfwit bobby. But circumstances being what they are, he isn't going to complain.

 

    Well, at least not too loudly.

 

    About three hours into this, and Sherlock is just about to explode. Mr. Allan is perhaps the most boring individual he has ever had to work with. Even more boring than and of his lab partners in primary school.

 

    He doesn't seem to appreciate his deductions. Or rather, he doesn't appreciate the flourish he puts in them. He keeps interrupting him with "Get to the point, Mr. Holmes." Or "I didn't ask for a dramatic retelling." At one point he even yells, "I am being paid to process forensic evidence, not to fluff up your ego!"

 

    Still, he can't complain too much, since Mr. Allan does take the time to listen to what he has to say. He does ask how Sherlock arrived to his conclusions, but for documentation purposes - not because he think Sherlock is just making stuff up.

 

    They sit there in amicable silence for a few hours. Sherlock manages to uncover a lot of information, but nothing truly definitive. That is until he comes across the envelope.

 

    It's an innocuous thing really. Just a plain white envelope that looks pretty much empty. Sherlock would have disregarded it had it not been for the fact that the envelope is unmistakably closed.

 

    "Allan, what was in his envelope?"

 

    "What envel- oh yeah. That one. It was rather odd. We've been trying to puzzle that out but couldn't he anywhere."

 

    "Today, Allan."

 

    "Oh, right. Sorry. There were orange pips in it."

 

    A lead weight settles in Sherlock's gut. "How many?"

 

    "Two. We think it's a way of taunting law enforcement. Boasting how many people they've killed this far."

 

    "Where there any for the other man?"

 

    "Not on the body, but when we searched his flat, we found an envelope with just one pip. None of us can make heads or tails as to why they went with orange pips of all things."

 

    "It's not a matter of how many days he has left," Sherlock mutters to himself, "but rather a taunt letting him know he's the fifth victim."

 

    Allan looks at him quizzically. "What are you going on about."

 

    Sherlock dismissively flapps a hand at him. "Oh, nothing, it's just -" He stops himself.

 

    Being clever and risking Mary's father's life just to prove himself is the exact opposite of a good idea. He's on thin ice as it is with John. If word got out that Sherlock could have rapped things up quicker, then any hope for restoring their relationship is dead and gone.

 

    "Actually," he sighs, stomping down on the rebellious urge to horde information,"I think I may know the significance."

* * *

 

    The more limited something is, the more precious it becomes. And with only a handful of days left, the Morstan's father-daughter time has superseded everything but work. John, bless him, tags along as well. He's loathe to tell Mary to spend more time with him, all things considered, but he misses fiancée as well.

 

    Mr. Morstan, who lives alone since his wife died, is not complaining about the extra company.

 

    "Checkmate."

 

    John sighs and knocks over his king. He glares at the opposing rook as if it personally insulted him.

 

    "Ah, don't feel so bad," Mr. Morstan says with a light Southern drawl, "You lasted a good thirty minutes. That's the longest anyone has managed against me in chess."

 

    "Who had the previous record?"

 

     "Me." Mary comes in with three cooling slices of apple pie topped with vanilla ice cream. "Congratulations, John. You beat my record of 17 minutes."

 

    John flushes pink. "I didn't mean -"

 

    "Don't worry about it," Mary waves him off, "The man needs to be taken down a peg or two."

 

    "Then maybe we should get Sherlock to play."

 

    Suddenly the doorbell rings followed by a rapid secession of knocks. The pattern repeats in an extremely obnoxious way.

 

    "I'll get it," John gets up to move.

 

    "No, no. I'll get it." Mr. Morstan groans as he gets up. "It's my house, and you're my guest."

 

    "Are you sure?"

 

    "Of course I'm sure. Out of all the murderers you've dealt with, which ones have ever killed their victims after annoyingly knocking?"

 

    John shrugs in acquiescence.

 

    He gets up and stretches as the knocking intensifies. "I'm coming. I'm coming. Hold your horses." He shouts.

 

    The noise stops and Mr. Morstan hobbles over to the door. On the other side is a manic looking Sherlock who more or less barges inside.

 

    "Please, come in," Mr. Morstan snarks.

 

    "Have you seen this man?" Sherlock shoves a picture into his face. Mr. Morstan grabs Sherlock's wrist, moving the paper further away for him to see better. On it is the latest victim.

 

    "Yeah. I know him. Peter Makowitz. Helped me settle in when I moved to England. Nice guy. Shame what happened to him."

 

    Sherlock bobs his head and fumbles another picture from his pocket. He pulls out a picture of the first victim.

 

    "Yeah, I know him too. Best man at my wedding. If I don't get murdered myself, I plan on going to his funeral."

 

    Somehow, Sherlock manages to get more manic. His face crinkles up into a Grinch like grin and he begins to victoriously fist pump.

 

    "Right. I'm going to put on the kettle." Mary says and makes a beeline for the kitchen.

 

    "Sherlock," John asks cautiously, "Are you high?"

 

    "No, of course not," Sherlock waves his hand as if John suggested a preposterous idea.

 

    "What are you on about?"

 

    "Isn't it obvious?"

 

    "Not really, no."

 

    "The same person who killed these two men is the same person who is planning Mr. Morstan's assassination."

 

    "How do you figure?" Mr. Morstan asks.

 

    "The pips! The first victim had an envelope with one pip. The second had two. It stands to reason that your five pips means that you are the fifth and final target, not necessarily that you have five days."

 

    "And you think the serial killer has some connection with Mr. Morstan and the others?" John reasons.

 

    "Perhaps. The killer at least has a connection with Mr. Morstan. Why else reserve him for last after killing everyone else in such a sensational way?"

 

    "Who would want my father dead so badly?" Mary says with a tray of tea. She hands Sherlock one and he takes a swig - heedless of the steam wafting off. The potent taste of chamomile hits him and he scowls at Mary.

 

    Mary simply smiles at him and takes a sip of her decidedly caffeinated earl grey.

 

    "That's the one thing I can't figure out,"  Mr. Morstan leans back, scrubbing his chin in thought, "I can't think a single person who wants me dead."

 

    "Even the people in your hometown?" Sherlock decided to ignore the tea in favour of the mystery at hand.

 

    "Mary thinks the same thing. But how could they know where I live? More importantly, how could they come here? I grew up in a rinky dink town and no one was rich."

 

    "You came over here, didn't you?"

 

    "Point. But why would they come here? After all these years?"

 

    "Hatred is a strong motivator. It may be that he or she has finally achieved the means of coming here."

 

    "Okay then. But who?"

 

    "I don't know. But rest assured I'll get to the bottom of this."

 

    "Thanks, Mr. Holmes. It really means a lot to me that you are going through all this trouble for little old me."

 

    Sherlock's smile is a tight thing. "Yes, of course."

 

    Sherlock awkwardly waves at John before heading out the door and decidedly not drinking his tea.

 

    "Cheeky bugger, that one" Mary chuckles as she dumps out his cup. "I pity his mother."

 

    "At least there is some good news." Mr. Morstan says as he sets up the chess board to start a new game.

 

    "How do you figure?"

 

    He shrugs at his daughter. "If I'm number five, then I don't gotta worry until he offs number four."

 

    "Whoever the poor sod is." John sadly shakes his head.

* * *

    That evening, as Mary relaxes after a long, stressful day, an envelope slips through her mail slot. There's no address or stamp.

 

    In fact, it's completely empty save for four orange pips.

* * *

 

     The day started off normal enough.

 

    Harry wakes up at six like she does every morning, gets dressed, and goes for a morning jog. After she decided to go sober, she took up jogging as a way to help drag herself out of her funk. It became a way for her to meditate and invigorate herself before the craziness of the day started.

 

    If only Clara could see her now.

 

    She does get very far before a very expsive and shady looking black car pulls up next to her. The back window rolls down partially - exposing a Caucasian man's forehead with red hair and a receding hairline.

 

    "Good morning, Ms. Watson. Would you kindly step inside?"

 

    Harry keeps jogging, bit moves to the other side of the side walk. "Um, who are you?"

 

    "It isn't important. Get inside. I need to ask you some questions."

 

    "Am I under arrest?"

 

    "Of course not, Ms. Watson."

 

    "Is my life in danger?'

 

    " Not that I am aware of. And I am aware of many things."

 

    Harry suppresses a shiver. She can't see his face very well, but she knows that he's give her a shark like smile."

 

    "I'll pass. Stranger danger, and all that."

 

    "Please, Ms. Watson. It involves your client, Dr. Hooper."

 

    Harry slows down to a brisk walk.  "Go on."

 

    "Dr. Hooper is something of a family friend, and I need your assistance coordinating her safety."

 

    "I need to see some ID first."

 

    The man sighs and rolls down the window to pass it to her. Harry takes note of his face. He's an odd looking man, though she wouldn't call him ugly per se. Still, his cold, prim demeanour makes her  want to shrink back.

 

    Harry takes the ID and nearly gasps when she sees the MI6 crest on it. She opens it up, snaps a picture, and emails it to herself for later.

 

    "You are more cautious than your brother."

 

    "So _you're_ Mycroft."

 

    "In the flesh."

 

    "And this must be the kidnapping that John and Molly warned me about."

 

    "Yes. Usually my assistant picks them up, but she is indisposed for the time being, and I  forced to do my own legwork."

 

    "How tragic," Harry rolls her eyes. "Well, I suppose I talk with you, but not like this. There's a bistro across the street from where I work. Meet me there at 7.30."

 

    Mycroft blinks at her. "I beg your pardon?"

 

    "I assume that all you have to talk about is something on the lines of keeping the press away from Molly and keeping her job. There is no reason to be so covert about things, and I want breakfast. Now if you will excuse me, I have a jog to get back to."

 

    "And you assume I know where that is?"

 

    "When you kidnapped my brother, you had a file on him that had some of his most intimate secrets. If you can do all that, you can find a bistro."

 

    Mycroft blinks at her. Still, he signals the driver and drives off. Harry shakes her head at his ridiculousness and jogs home to take a shower. If this posh man thinks that she, Harriet J. Watson, is going to dance to whatever tune he plays, he is sorely mistaken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I am going to enjoy Harry and Mycroft's interactions. She just the right amount of sassy to keep him in his lane.


	10. Speaking Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes sleuthing. Harry has breakfast. John confronts a certain detective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am back! I am so sorry that it took me so long to get back to this story and even longer to finish it. IRL has been one strin of crazy after another. But I appreciate those who took the time to comment, kudo, and read this story. We are nearly at 1,000 hits!

    It feels good to be back in the field. After a back and forth with Donovan, Sherlock managed to convince her to let him be in his natural element.

 

    Well. One of them, at least.

 

    "I am not letting you anywhere near the crime scene Fr- Holmes. I don't care how good you are at what you do. You still compromise the evidence and have a history of pilfering evidence to run tests when it suites you. At least this way someone can keep an eye on you."

 

    Normally, Sherlock would complain about this. However, just to be on pathology duty was hard enough to get Donovan to agree to. Plus it gives him a chance to talk to Molly. So all and all, it isn't a bad arrangement. Still, Sherlock would not be Sherlock without some form of resistance.

 

    "Oh, yes. I'll study the dead body. I suppose that I will have to hope that the Met's finest don't do something that will cause more bodies to join us in the morgue."

 

    "Oh, piss off. You can either be a good little boy and play with your friend Dr. Hooper and the corpses or go back to assisting Wallace."

 

    As much as Sherlock hates letting someone else have the last word, he wisely shuts up.

 

    In an uncharacteristic show of good will, Donovan offers him a ride to Bart's.

 

    "I'll even let you sit up front."

 

    "You lost a bet. Didn't you?" Sherlock chuckles.

 

    "Believe it or not, Holmes, I didn't. As I figure, if you are going to be working with me, there's no reason to make it any more miserable than it has to be."

 

    Sherlock rolls his eyes. "It also gives you the benefit of keeping an eye on me."

 

    Donovan smiles. "That too."

 

    The ride to Bart's is a rather quiet one. There's 80's soft rock in the background, but it's very low. If he's honest, the white noise is rather centering. Especially when they hit a rather large patch of stop and go traffic.

 

    "Oh come on!" Donovan makes to blare her horn but thinks better of it.

 

    "You could always try the siren."

 

    "Tempting. But that won't help when we're boxed in. Wonder what's caused it?"

 

    "Accident, most likely."

 

    Donovan gives a noncommittal noise.

 

    Sherlock looks out the window. He attempts to block out the ever increasing aggressive din of traffic by refocusing on the case.

 

    It's extremely obvious why the murderer killed these people. It's even more obvious that the perpetrator is someone from Mr. Morstan's past in America. What is not obvious are two key questions:

 

    Who is it exactly, and why now?

 

    Sherlock refocuses on the world outside. It has presumably been 5 minutes and they have barely moved past the same small shop they've been practically parked at. He has the time to delegate some research.

 

> #### Me: Hello, John. -SH
> 
> 020 7946 0667: Who is this?
> 
> **Me: Who else could it be? -SH**
> 
> 020 7946 0667: Sherlock?
> 
> **Me: The one and only. -SH**
> 
> 020 7946 0667: How did you even get this number? After you dove off Bart's I had to change my number.
> 
> 020 7946 0667: Got too many harrasements and sympathy callers.
> 
> **Me: Mycoft -SH**
> 
> 020 7946 0667: Oh.
> 
> 020 7946 0667: Of course you did.
> 
> **Me: I am in need of your assistance. -SH**
> 
> 020 7946 0667: ... In what way?
> 
> **Me: I am completely certain that the killer is someone from your future father-in-law's past. However, I do not know enough to guess who. I need you to do some research and find out who the likely suspects are. -SH**
> 
> 020 7946 0667: And by that you mean make a list of everyone that is still alive and has the strength to pull of the murders?
> 
> **Me: And those smart enough to pull this off. Can't rule out the fact just quite yet that the killer has an aconplice. -SH**
> 
> **Me: Or _is_ the accomplice. -SH**
> 
> 020 7946 0667: I have a job, Sherlock. I don't have the time to devote to all of this.
> 
> **Me: My apologies. -SH**
> 
> **Me: I simply thought that since Mary's father might die a brutal death - maybe even before he has a chance to walk her down the aisle - you might want to play a more active roll. -SH**
> 
> **Me: Especially since you couldn't live with yourself if something were to happen and you did nothing. -SH.**
> 
> **Me: My mistake. -SH**
> 
> 020 7946 0667: No.
> 
> 020 7946 0667: I'm being petty.
> 
> 020 7946 0667: It's just that I could not help but to remember when you treated me like a glorified errand boy.
> 
> 020 7946 0667: I know you are trying to help. I'm sorry.
> 
> 020 7946 0667: I'll have Mary help. Lord knows she's been wanting to help out with the investigation.
> 
> **Me: No worries. -SH**

 

     Sherlock chews on his lower lip. He wants to say more. But how can he convey to John what he's feeling? He's been a terrible friend. Still is in some ways. But he wants to be better. Wants to nurture this friendship.

 

    Because John is the best thing that has ever happened to him. Loathe as he is to admit it, not even Victor has inspired him the be better like John has. And after he lived without John by his side, he is not too keen to chase him off.

 

    "Earth to Holmes! Come in Holmes!"

 

    Sherlock starts and looks back out the window. The car is parked in one of Bart's parking lots. He turns to face Donovan  who has a loom of mild consern on her face.

 

    "John?"

 

    "Mm."

 

    She sighs and shakes her head. "For what it's worth, I do hope you two work things out. You are far more bearable with him in your life."

 

    "I know. I hope so too."

 

    "You're not a high functioning sociopath." It isn't a question.

 

    Sherlock shacks his head. "Afraid not."

 

    "Thought so. Used to believe you. Then John came into the picture. Then Moriarty. You are far from normal. Not sure what's wrong with your brain. But at least you aren't a sociopath."

 

    "I suppose I'll have to reevaluate my opinion on your investigating prowess. Everyone thinks I'm a sociopath."

 

    Donovan simply shrugs. "You're not though."

 

    "So I suppose it's up to DI Sally Donovan to figure it out?"

 

    "Nah. None of my business. Though if you want to patch things up with Dr. Watson, I recommend telling him."

 

    "And I suppose you are the expert on healthy relationships?"

 

    Donovan snorts. "I figure that if you do enough things wrong, you'll figure out the right way based on whatever you haven't done. Let's go. The sooner we talk to Molly, the sooner we can get lunch."

* * *

    Sherlock is absolutely frustrated with himself.  He wishes that Molly would go back to being the ill-dressed, not confident, wallflower of a woman. He could get whatever he wanted from her by ruffling his hair or with a little bit of flattery.

 

    This Molly, on the other hand, this voluptuous, well dressed, confident woman has him wrong footed. Though he is not particularly attracted to bigger women like Tim is (or was it Tom?), there is no doubt in his mind that he finds her more attractive now. The only problem is that he seems to be chasing after her, and not the other way around.

 

    "Good afternoon, Sally." Molly kindly greets. Then her eyes rest on Sherlock. "Hello, Sherlock."

 

    Sherlock brushes off the cool tone. "Dr. Hooper."

 

    An emotion flits across her face that is too fast for him to pinpoint. But before he can press the issue, Molly is all business.

 

    "So what can I do for you?"

 

    "As a courtesy to Mr. Holmes here, I have agreed to let him take a look at the bodies and your reports. He isn't to touch or take home anything." Donovan levels Sherlock a no nonsense look. Sherlock pretends to look like the angel he is not.

 

    "For the serial cross murders?"

 

    Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Obviously."

 

    Both women glare at him. At the very he has the sense to look mildly apologetic.

 

    Donovan turns to Molly. "Are you going to be okay here?"

 

    Molly looks at Sherlock, mulling over the unspoken question. "Yes. I'll be fine."

 

    "You mean 'we' will be fine." Sherlock drawls in his usual pedantic way.

 

    Molly looks him straight in the eye. "No."

 

    Sherlock suppresses a gulp. It's going to be a long afternoon

* * *

 

    Harry and Mycroft stare at each other over breakfast. Or rather, Mycroft tries to subtlely look intimidating while Harry smirks to herself. It's a game of Chicken, and Harry doesn't plan on breaking first.

 

    After methodically buttering her third croissant, her hard work has paid off.

 

    "If we could get to it? Some of us have important things to do.

 

    Harry smiles, refusing to rise to the bait. "If you insist."

 

    Mycroft doesn't respond. He simply pulls something out of his valise and hands it to her.

 

    "What is this?"

 

    "This is an agreement."

 

    "I can see that." She skims the paper. "Are you offering protection for Dr. Hooper in exchange for monitoring your brother?"

 

    "I believe it's a mutually beneficial agreement. Your client gets protection for the vultures that are the press. And I have someone I can trust to keep an eye on my brother."

 

    "Mutually beneficial my rear." Harry makes a show of ripping up the papers. "You just want to outsource your snooping because you know Sherlock wants to be around Molly and you don't want to waste government resources."

 

    Harry tosses the paper pieces into the air. They flutter down like confetti. She can feel the wait staff giving her the eye, so her grand act of defiance is dampened by brushing the paper into a neat pile before putting it in the bin.

 

    "You and your brother, Mr. Mycroft, are the reason Dr. Hooper is even in this mess. I suggest you come up with and alternate way of providing safety or my client and I will have to take legal actions against you."

 

    "You are hardly the first to threaten legal actions against me. Many have tried. Every time, the situation ends in my favour. What makes you think this will be any different?"

 

    "Because Sherlock cares about Molly."

 

    He sighs at the truth of it. Mycroft supposes this is his penance for gift wrapping his brother to that maniac.

 

    "Fine then. You and I will meet at this location this evening to discuss what needs to happen."

 

    She looks at him perplexed. "Okay. But this place closes before tea time."

 

    "Not this place," Harry's text alert chimes, "that one."

 

    Harry goes rooting through her bag (and cursing herself for even possessing a tote) and pulls out her phone. Sure enough, there is an address to a place she isn't familiar with. Then a second text pops up.

 

>     unknown: Wear something nice.

 

    "Couldn't you have just told me instead of-" but when she looks up, Mycroft is gone. There is enough money on the table to pay for both of them, so at least he was kind enough not to stiff her. She looks out the window to see his government car driving off.

 

    "That's just great. The man thinks he's  Batman." She gathers her stuff and heads off to work. At least it won't be another evening of trying not to drink.

* * *

    Today is not a great day. First, John missed his alarm and was late to work. Then, when he noticed that Mary seemed be worried about something, he didn't have the time to gotalk with her. For whatever reason, every Tom, Dick, and Harry has some sort of health crises.

 

    And to top everything off, he forgot his lunch pail and wallet in his rush to go to work on time-ish. So he had to spend the day with no coffee or food and remain calm as he treated screaming babies, old ladies with rolls of film of grandchildren, and an endless stream of hypochondriacs. So admittedly he was rather rude to Sherlock when he called.

 

    John can't tell if Sherlock is being passive-agressive or sincere; knowing him, it could be either depending on his mood. Still, he makes a very good point, so John will have the grace to drop it.

 

    He waits for Mary to get off work so they can go to her father's house together. However, when she shows up, she looks ever more drawn than she did before.

 

    "Mary?"

 

    The smile gives is a pinched thing. "John, I got an envelope today."

 

    All the blood drains from his face. "How many?"

 

    "Four. I suppose I should be greatful that I am not the very next person."

 

    John growls and hits the steering wheel in anger.

 

    "I suppose I should have expected it. Whoever is behind this hates my father. Why wouldn't I be a target?"

 

    "You're not going to be a target!" John's voice is strained. "I won't allow it. You, me, and Sherlock - we are going to find this man and make sure he can't hurt anyone again."

 

    "I hope you're right."

 

    "Do you want to tell your father?"

 

    "He has enough to worry about right now. Let's wait until we know who's target number three."

 

    John gives a perfunctory nod. They drive to Mr. Morstan's flat with a heavy science over them.

* * *

    "Why does anyone have this many photo albums?"

 

     Mr. Morstan, as it turns out, is something of a hoarder. There are pictures dating back to before he was born of parents and grandparents long dead. There are pictures of the late Mrs. Morstan, her relatives, family friends, vacation destinations, bird watching photos taken back in the 70s. And nothing is in any noticeable order. It's enough to make a man want to cry.

 

    Mr. Morstan tries to help, but from time to time, he comes across a certain picture and he'll get maudlin. Fortunately, Mary is there to bring his focus back. 

 

    By late evening, they have a decent list of people from Mr. Morstan's past. Some are crossed off the list after either he or a quick Google search confirms they are no longer alive. Still, it is note people than they had when this whole mess started.

 

    "I never knew I had an uncle," Mary says as she holds up a yellowed picture, "Is he still alive?"

 

    Her father sighs. "Far as I know. Your Uncle John and I? Thick as thieves. He used to cover for me when I'd sneak out to see your mother. He was about ten years younger than me and didn't understand why our father hated certain people. Then one day he drunk the kool-aid, and I had to choose between him or my girlfriend."

 

    "And you chose Mom."

 

    He groans and rubs his face in his hands. "It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. But as much as I love him, choosing him meant living a life that I hate with a passion."

 

    "Why are just now mentioning him?" John asks carefully.

 

    "I don't know. I guess because it's my biggest regret. I'd rather forget about it all together."

 

    "But he's your brother!"

 

    "I know that!" John and Mary jump at the sudden yelling. Mr. Morstan tries to reign in his anger. "I know. It wasn't right, but what would you have me do? Talk about my brother who hated my wife, her family and our daughter?"

 

    Mary looks at John helplessly. John awkwardy shrugs back.

 

    "Do you think he could have done it?" John gently asks.

 

    "I don't know. My brother was a gentle soul. Couldn't stay mad at anyone for very long. Not sure if that's still true, but he never was one for complicated plans. Can't see him going through all this cloak and dagger. If he wanted me dead, I'm pretty sure he would have just killed me."

 

    "Could he be working with someone?" Mary asks.

 

    "I have no idea. The last time I saw him, he was only 10 years old."

 

    Mary surprises her father with a fierce hug. "We'll figure this out, Dad."

 

    The hugs he gives back is just as fierce. "I know you will."

* * *

    John walks up the stairs of 221 B Bakers Street with the list of names he and the Morstans gathered. Following right behind him is Mary with a folder full of pictures.

 

    Part of him dreads this - watching Sherlock rip into Mr. Morstan's past with his laser focus, and trademark glee for solving puzzles. But for both Mary and her father's sake, it is what has to be done.

 

    Together they climb the stairs to Sherlock's flat. John grabs the knob and the door opens. Typical Sherlock, ignoring things like basic safety to speed up getting to the bottom of a mystery.

 

    Part of him knows he is being petty. And yet, he cannot feel repentent. He doesn't hate the ridiculous man, but he is not willing to forgive just yet. It took him years to forgive Harry. There is no telling how long he'll finally forgive Sherlock.

 

    "Ah, good. You're here," Sherlock says by way of greeting. The flat it a sprawl of papers and string. It's been so long since John had seen Sherlock in action that he can't help but feel slightly fond.

 

    But only slightly.

 

    "Sherlock?" Mary asks looking concerned, "Have you eat yet?"

 

    "Not hungry," he mutters in response - choosing to focus on the notes written in John's oddly neat handwriting.

 

    "He doesn't eat during cases." John explains, "Digestion slows down his thinking."

 

    "That is the biggest load of malarkey I have ever heard." And with that she heads off to the kitchen. John makes to stop her before deciding not to. After all, he is not going to let Sherlock waste away if something can be done to fix his eating habits. Maybe that something will be Mary.

 

    She's the biggest reason why he didn't waste away himself after the ... well, after.

 

    "This is quite a list, John," and doesn't it sound like faint praise, "Casting a wide net of potential initial suspects. It's nice to know you were able to retain my teachings."

 

    John flushes with pride. "I'm pretty sure that his brother is somehow involved."

 

    "Ah, yes. The classic vase of sibling rivalry gone wrong. Chose a woman over his own flesh and blood. Likely involved in someway. Though it is too early to tell if he is solo, the brains, or the brawn."

 

    "Mary looked him up online. The man's an avid hunter. I saw far too many decapitated animals for my liking."

 

    "Oh, please. You were an Army doctor. Surely you you're not bothered by such things."

 

    "Al Qaeda was not in the habit of taxidermy."

 

    "Shame. I think having the corpses of your enemies stuffed and displayed is excellent deterrent."

 

    John rolls his eyes. "I swear, Sherlock. You are the most indecent man I know."

 

    "Then you must be the second. Why else did you subject yourself to my company."

 

    John throws his head back and laughs. "We are completely nutters, you and I."

 

    Sherlock smiles. "Yes. I suppose we are."

 

    The two sit there quietly ruminating on the past and their friendship. They've missed this far more than either man is willing to admit.

 

    And then the smell of bleach wafts from the kitchen.

 

    "Mary," John shouts into the kitchen, "What are you doing?"

 

    "The sink is full of black mould!"

 

    Sherlock bolts from his seat in great haste. "No! My experiment!"

 

    But it was too late. The various mouldy items in the sink had already been splashed with bleach. Mary took a step back as Sherlock's face turned red and twisted into a horrid, wrinkled visage. Somewhere in the part of her brain that wasn't screaming in panicked terror, it vaguely reminded her of Smaug.

 

    "You  _stupid_ woman! You ruined it!"

 

    "Oi!" John grabs Sherlock's shoulder and whirls him around. "Don't you  _dare_ call her that!"

 

    "It was keeping away the boredom. Molly won't let me have any body parts and I don't have many options left."

 

    "And you thought  _this_ was a good idea?"

 

    Suddenly, Mary grabs them by the backs of their shirts, and smacks their foreheads together.

 

    "Both of you, cut it out!"

 

    "Ow! What was that for?" John yells feeling betrayed.

 

    "All of this animosity between you two. John, I appreciate you standing up for me. But this is Sherlock's place. These are his things. He has the right to be mad."

 

    Sherlock's face starts to grow smug before he catches the glare Mary pins on him.

 

    "And as for you, Mr. Mad Scientist," Sherlock gukps at the look she's giving him, "Black mould? Seriously? Do you care so little about your health of anyone else's?"

 

    "It keeps me entertained!" Sherlock argues.

 

    "But at what cost? John's told me about how you experiment with stolen corpses and other questionable thing. Personally, I don't care if you enjoy that kind of thing. But the way you go about doing is is just asking for trouble.

    "How would you feel if you got some horrible disease from the unsafe way you conduct your experiments? Or Mrs. Hudson? Or John? You have to think about the consequences of your actions and decide whether or not you are prepared to deal with them. Because as much as Molly and John tell me you are a man of logic, I am beginning to think you are a man of impulse."

 

    John watches in awe as all the fight drains out of Sherlock. He's eben more shocked as the man simply nods and mutters an apology. Mary seems to accept it and go back to her bleaching.

 

    "I'm going to finish sanitizing this and whip up some coffee and something to snack on. You guys can start without me."

 

    Both men nod and head back to the living room.

 

    "Is she always like that?" Sherlock asks.

 

    "Kinda."

 

    "Well, at least she's better than the others."

 

    John's not sure why, but it makes all the difference in the world that Sherlock approves of Mary. Perhaps it won't take ten years to get over what Sherlock did.

 

    Maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the longest one by far. I wanted to further the plot along a bit more and give the characters a chance to really shine. Any constructive criticism is welcomed.


	11. Story Update

Hello, my lovlies,

As you have noticed, this story has not been updated in a while. The good news is, I am not abandoning it. I am not really happy with the pacing and overall flow of the story. In my effort to not make another novel, I sacrificed the stories quality.

That brings us to the bad news part of this announcement. I am going to go back and revise this story. As such, I will not be progressing it just yet.

For those of you who have been patiently waiting, I thank you as much. Once the story has been fixed to my liking, I will delete this announcement.

 

Stay awesome,

Munchies 🌹


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